


Just One Look at You

by linearoundmythoughts, Lyrae_Immortalis



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Disabled Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Gaslighting, Grinding, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, Healthy Relationships, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kissing, Light BDSM, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Mild S&M, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse (for Ed's), Past Domestic Violence (for Kristen's backstory), References to Depression, Rimming, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Stalking, Tags Updated Every Chapter, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violent Thoughts, erotic crying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2018-11-14 18:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 173,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11214234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linearoundmythoughts/pseuds/linearoundmythoughts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae_Immortalis/pseuds/Lyrae_Immortalis
Summary: Oswald Cobblepot works hard at his boring clerical job at the GCPD under Captain Fish Mooney’s guidance. Content to see his life’s greatest accomplishment be the victory over his previous, criminal self, Oswald keeps a low profile. This is what makes him the perfect mark for one of Gotham’s more lost souls, The Riddler, who is desperate to find a mentorship that will help him end his self-made conundrum of villainy, even against the advice of his partner in crime, Kristen “Red” Kringle, and the King of Gotham himself, Lucius Fox. Reluctant to advise Edward Nygma, but caught sympathizing with him due to undeniable similarities, he and Oswald grow close, despite circumstances and doubts.(A "morality" swap of Gotham canon, where the "bad guys" and "good guys" exchange places in a timeline and universe superseding the show's.)





	1. Who Are You? A Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Talking about this change-up to canon over Discord and the phone just as a fun way to pass the time turned into so much more. We couldn't be having a better time writing together, developing the plot, discovering the details of this timeline, and learning all about these variations of the muses, the people closest to them, and the craziness of a Gotham where simple changes in the character's lives took them in drastically different paths. We're really excited to see where this all takes us, and we hope you enjoy it as well!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know how two people can see the same situation in _completely_ different lights? (Or you saw our tag about it, perhaps.) This chapter depicts an extreme version of that as Ed and Oswald become…acquainted. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talking about this change-up to canon over Discord and the phone just as a fun way to pass the time turned into so much more. We couldn't be having a better time writing together, developing the plot, discovering the details of this timeline, and learning all about these variations of the muses, the people closest to them, and the craziness of a Gotham where simple changes in the character's lives took them in drastically different paths. We're really excited to see where this all takes us, and we hope you enjoy it as well!

For the first moment after Oswald opens his eyes, his body feels relaxed and the world floats freely, free of any awareness or pain. That doesn’t last long. Switching to clutching his eyes shut in agony, he flips onto his back, trying to relieve pressure off his leg. When his next strained exhale forces his eyes open again, there’s a man’s smiling face inches from his own. Oswald screams, demanding to know “What is this, who are you, where am I!” in a rush afterwards, the fear and confusion in his voice clear.

Ed’s face morphs into one of surprise; he wasn’t expecting Oswald to awaken so abruptly.

“Mr. Co…please, you must calm down.” Ed tries to get a word in but Oswald is too worked up.

Attempting another tactic, Ed lifts his hand and places it on Oswald’s shoulder, hoping a soothing touch will work. It doesn’t—Oswald flinches away and continues to panic.

“Mr. Cobblepot… _Oswald,_ listen to me,” Ed says as he backs away from the bed, giving Oswald room to breathe. With his hands clenched around the iron bedframe, he waits for Oswald to settle. “I’ll stay away. Will that help?”

“How do you know my name, who are you!” Oswald demands, scuttling up against the headboard behind him. Is he…is he in this man’s _bed_? That’s…that’s not something he would ever expect. As he tries to process what he could have done to end up here, flickers of what happened come crashing back into his mind.

“Stay there!” Oswald barks. “How did you get me back here?”

“I’ll stay.” Ed takes a breath, trying to settle the nerves inside of himself. He has been waiting to have the opportunity to talk with Oswald for a while now; their previous encounter was not nearly enough to settle his curiosity. As Ed lifts his hands to neaten his own clothes, Oswald shifts back further against the headboard. The action causes Ed to frown: Oswald shouldn’t be moving—he’s going to aggravate his injury.

“Oswald, I will answer all your questions but you need to stay still for me. You will only do yourself more harm.”

Fear flashes through Oswald’s eyes every time Ed opens his mouth to speak. It’s unsettling. Ed would much rather see the small smile on his face, the one he was graced with the last time they met.

“My name is Edward Nygma, we met two weeks ago…well, fifteen days and six hours ago,” Ed says with a tight-lipped grin as he adjusts his glasses, “and as for how you made your way into my apartment—I carried you.”

Oswald bites the inside of his cheek by accident when he winces in pain; this man isn’t kidding; moving makes everything hurt even _more_. What _happened_ to him? Flicking his eyes over the tall, thin man, trying to see if he remembers him at all, Oswald still comes up short.

“I see a lot of people every day in my line of work, and I don’t remember you. Were…were you involved in what happened with the Captain and—” Oswald feels woozy; it’s hard to think.

The man readjusts his glasses again, his fingers splayed across each stem to push them up by both sides. The lighting is poor, and he hadn’t focused on that detail until now. He recognizes them.

“You’re that man from—from the files, the…” Oswald waves his hand. “Green suit…Chess Killer.” He sneers, looking around the room. “Your real name is _Edward_? I _know_ you?”

Ed presses at his eyes, beneath his glasses as he lets out a mortified groan. “I’m not…the _Chess Killer._ That’s not who I am!” Ed hates that the media has taken to calling him that, despite his continual insistence to correct it. Why did the ridiculous thing have to stick? It didn’t even make sense. Chess was involved _one_ time, that was it! This wasn’t how he wanted to be remembered, even Oswald…

“Wait!” Ed says as his hands slap down onto the iron bars, startling the man in the bed. “Sorry, Oswald, but do you honestly not remember meeting me the other week?” Ed steps away from the base of the bed with the intention to check Oswald’s head for injuries (there has to be a reason he isn’t remembering) but stops when he is fixed with a hard glare. “Right, no moving. Sorry.”

With his head bowed, Ed swiftly moves back into position, hating the way the bars of his bed keep him away from Oswald. 

Oswald un-balls his fists as he considers the way the man who claims to know him moved towards him (quickly and with a natural predisposition to fold in on himself). He stands straight now, but Oswald can tell it’s a self-taught behavior and not instinctual. The way he jumped forward and swiftly retreated gave it away.

He groans as it starts coming back to him, the body language a memory trigger.

“We crashed into each other and I spilled my coffee all over you,” Oswald deadpans, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t really looked at the man’s face, outside of a quick glimpse of brown eyes behind old-fashioned glasses. He’d wanted to yell at the guy, tell him to not stand so close, but Oswald hated being rude to people when he could try to be kind, instead. He’d learned it was the better path. The man had looked shaken enough, curled on himself, his hands out defensively, the same way this Edward-person had just done. “I tried to mop it up with my scarf, apologized for ruining your coat, said it was handsome…” Oswald looks at the ceiling. “I ruined the Chess Killer’s coat and now he’s going to kill me.”

Ed smiles and straightens his back until he catches the tail end of Oswald’s sentence. “Slowl—oh, _no no no_ , I’m not going to kill you,” he says with his hands stretched out before him, fingertips shaking slightly. “That is the _furthest_ thing from my mind…although I would love it if you stopped calling me the _Chess Killer._ ’Edward’ will suffice.” In trying to cut the tension, Ed flashes Oswald a grin, which is hardly reciprocated. He doesn’t want the man to be afraid of him: there are enough people that are scared of…well, not _Edward_ , but his alter ego. Ed doesn’t want Oswald grouped in with those people as it would only deter matters.

“Listen, Oswald, whilst I’m thrilled that you remember who I am, I want you to believe me when I tell you that no harm will come to you by my hands. That is not why I brought you here.”

“Then why did you bring me here, _Edward_?” Oswald asks, trying to keep the hidden edge in his voice from exposing itself. Best to play along with the Chess Killer’s nonsense so he won’t die as fast. Oswald still doesn’t believe him, that he’s safe. Looking around the room, he tries to focus his mind on something other than the odd antics of this man claiming to have brought him back to his apartment with no malicious intent. They seem to be alone.

Oswald swallows, suddenly realizing how dry his mouth is. He starts to realize he’s on something—a narcotic, probably. No wonder he felt jittery. His leg still throbs and as much as he wants to reach for it, he doesn’t want to move again.

“You were there for the attack, weren’t you? You’ve been to the GCPD quite a bit. They talk about you every time you get hauled in.” Oswald’s head is about to drop, the exhaustion starting to catch up with him after the surge of his initial panic. Something about those glasses…a snapshot of a moment crosses his mind, of Oswald holding a woman in a leather coat to the ground, trying to shield her from something. “What happened to the redhead?” he asks. “Did you bring her here, too?” 

Ed frowns as his fingers play with the button on his cuff. Oswald is clearly still on edge around him, leaving Ed to worry over how he could possibly find a way to make Oswald see reason. This likely wasn’t a conversation they would be having anytime soon as Ed postulates that Oswald will succumb to his weariness in a little over ten minutes. Frankly, it was surprising he has held on this long; Oswald was quite strong for a little thing and immensely brave, too.

“The woman you speak of is my friend,” Ed comments in a voice scarcely above a whisper. Kristen was his only friend and although Oswald didn’t know her in the slightest (as she was better at keeping herself unnoticed), he didn’t hesitate to keep her safe amidst all the danger surrounding him. “I want to thank you for saving her, she is a big part of my life and I would’ve hated to lose her. Red would have been here to thank you herself but she opted to retreat to…a place of her choosing post the attack.”

As much as Ed wants to open up and share everything with Oswald, he knows with absolute clarity that it would ultimately give the man too much power over him. Oswald works in the GCPD and is quite close with the captain: it would not end well if all Ed’s secrets were spilled.

“She…she was with you. _Great._ ” Oswald drops his head against his shoulder. “Was she stalking me too, or…” Oswald waves the thought away. “Criminal or not, she didn’t deserve to get hurt. That’s why I jumped in.” He softens a little. “I’m glad she’s okay.”

Nibbling on the end of his nail, Ed stares at Oswald with raised brows as he tries to gather the courage to voice words that have been spiralling in the depths of his mind for some time. After taking a slow deep breath, Ed drops his hand, wrapping it around the iron rod and leans forward.

“Oswald, this may be a confusing statement, certainly one I am sure you have never heard but I…well, I want to be like you.” Ed’s last few words tumble out of his mouth so quickly that they bring an almost disgusted look to Oswald’s face. Swallowing over the lump in his throat, Ed repeats himself, however, the same face peers back at him. Pinched brows, narrowed eyes, clenched jaw. It appears as though his request has fallen on deaf ears. 

“Would you like some water?” Ed blurts, in hopes of shifting the conversation away to something much simpler. 

Looking at a bright spot of light in the window behind Edward, Oswald feels himself fade out a little, trying to concentrate on what Edward asked him. Pulling his lips back in confusion, Oswald furrows his brow and smacks his lips. “If you were going to kill me, you’d have done it already. I am parched.” He bits his lip before adding “Thanks” to the end of his sentence, unable to hold back the habit.

Waiting for his promised glass of water, he blinks pointedly, trying to wake himself up. “You want to be…a thirty year old file clerk? _Why_?” Oswald drags the last word out, exaggerating his pronunciation of it. “My life is so—” _Miserable_ , he wants to say. He has two friends and they both are his superiors. “I have no family…haven’t been on a date in years, no promotion in sight,” he ends up confessing out loud. “You and your… _girlfriend_ are probably wealthy. You’re thieves. Or serial killers? Whatever it is you two do…I don’t even know.” Oswald laughs wearily, waving his free hand. “You know, I don’t even read the paper anymore?” Not since his mom died. Everything the last few months had been a blur since that sorrow came to pass, and Oswald had mentally checked out of the world around him. “I don’t _care_ anymore about what’s going on in this city. I simply do my job and keep to myself. I don’t know who you are, and you shouldn’t know who I am. If this is over the coffee…” he trails off, Edward getting blurry in the distance.

Ed slowly fills the glass as he listens to Oswald ramble. _Is he always this talkative or is it just a delayed reaction to the surging emotions within?_ Ed doesn’t know but he is intrigued over the prospect of discovering more about the small angry man, despite the digs at Ed’s own expense. A smile graces Ed’s face as he grabs a spiralled green straw on a whim, hoping to break Oswald out of his solemn mood.

“You know, Red isn’t my girlfriend,” Ed says as his smile shifts to a smirk, “I thought you might have been more perceptive than that.” To think that he’d have a girlfriend was almost laughable; Ed was well past that point in his life. That confusion was lifted although Kristen _loved_ to bring up his misplaced crush on her time and time again. She’s lucky Ed has a soft spot for her, it was one that would likely never fade even with her constant badgering.

Strolling back to Oswald with a full glass of water in hand, Ed stops at the base of the bed, tossing up whether or not he is allowed to advance into Oswald’s personal space. _He did agree to the water._ After a brief contemplation Ed slowly steps forward, watching Oswald’s reaction carefully, although there was little response to be found outside of the slight narrowing of his green eyes. Ed doesn’t blink as he peers down at Oswald and he becomes overly conscious of his breath. Moving his hands a little too quickly, Ed thrusts the cup in the man’s direction, causing a splash of water to fall onto Oswald’s lap.

“Oh dear,” Ed utters, he places the glass on the nightstand and pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket, set on cleaning up his spill. Patting down the blanket with a rushed eagerness, Ed hardly even remembers Oswald is there until he looks up to find Oswald’s face not far from his own. Swallowing a gasp, Ed stumbles back in surprise, barely managing to stay on his feet, before straightening his back. 

“I…I’m sorry, Oswald, although I _guess_ we are even now,” Ed says with a laugh that sounds more nervous than joyful. With a firmer grip, Ed picks up the glass and tries again. “If you would agree to it, I’d love the chance to get to know you. I understand we come from vastly different lives, but that’s half the appeal.”

The chess serial killer man is lucky Oswald is half-unconscious; while it’s clear he doesn’t seem to realize how inappropriate it is that he’s frantically dabbing at Oswald’s _crotch_ , Oswald still would’ve slapped him for violating his personal space like that. He doesn’t want to hurt _anyone_ , but a lifetime of people disrespecting him and his boundaries taught him to stand up for himself.

It also taught him to try to be the kindness in the world Oswald so rarely has seen outside of his mother (and his mentor, as well). There’s something _wrong_ with this Edward fellow, and it’s not just the “super-villain” thing he’s made himself imfamous for. The way he jitters and jumps at everything…Oswald quickly realizes he’s been abused, too, albeit in a very different way, if Oswald is reading him correctly.

And he knows how to read this fellow. The insinuation that he can’t is comical.

Grabbing the glass and downing it in rapid gulps, he struggles to put it on the table near him before resorting to thrusting it back into Edward’s chest. Leaning into his face, Oswald smiles at him with one half of his mouth.

“You’re not a very self-aware man, Edward. You could’ve just asked for my number; you didn’t have to try to blow up my workplace, break my legs and drug me. Everyone in this city is so _extravagant_.”

Rolling onto his side, Oswald tries to get out of the bed and away from the man with his almost-playfully shy face. His skin looks so _soft_. The world swirls a little harder around Oswald and it’s hard to sense direction.

“As tempting as your offer is, I think you aren’t quite my _type_ , as I’m not interested in…whatever you are, and I’ll be leaving now!” he announces loudly, before moving his weight onto his legs and promptly crumbling to the floor. It only takes a few seconds of cold wood against his face and Edward’s voice drifting in the background for Oswald to pass out again.

“Oh, Oswald,” Ed _tsks_ as he runs a hand across the back of his own neck. The man tried so hard to hold onto the waking world, to appear strong in the face of one of Gotham’s many enemies yet ultimately his weariness and injuries got the better of him. Tossing the glass carelessly into the sink, Ed strolls over to Oswald’s unconscious body and pokes his shoulder. A soft huff of laughter escapes him at the lack of response so he moves to sit beside Oswald on the floor.

“You _do_ know I wasn’t the one to break your legs, right? I mean, I wasn’t even in the area till Red called me to let me know what was going down.” Ed reaches out and tentatively runs a hand through Oswald’s hair, brushing the longer pieces away from his eyes. The soft strands pull him in and he finds himself sitting there for longer than he intended to.

“I wouldn’t have been there if not for you, and you’re lucky I was. You could have suffered a fate much worse than a battered knee, so you should be thankful that I came to your rescue.” Ed was no knight in shining armor—well, he wasn’t until today. There were times when he questioned his role in society: the path of a criminal was dangerous but it was all he was good at…for the most part. He still had to deal with that pesky name the city had shackled him with but Oswald would help with that in time, Ed was certain.

Tucking his long legs beneath him, Ed draws Oswald into his arms and carries him back over to the bed. Despite the struggle with his footing and the slight shakiness in his arms, Ed revels in the feeling of having Oswald close to him. Too bad he had to be unconscious for it to happen.

“You’re a lot heavier than you look,” Ed utters as he lowers Oswald back down onto the mattress, arranging him as gently as possible before drawing the blankets up over his sleeping body. He couldn’t help but stand there and stare at Oswald, taking notice of the way his dark eyelashes curl ever so slightly. Resisting the urge to reach out and touch them, Ed takes a seat on the edge of the bed, thinking over Oswald’s last utterance before he toppled like dominos.

“I don’t know what to make of you, Oswald Cobblepot. By all intents, I should want nothing to do with you, and yet here you lie in my bed, and I can’t help but want to be close to you.” Ed sighs and scratches at the small hairs on the back of his neck. How is he supposed to convince Oswald to notice him, to appreciate him when he would rather dismiss him with barely a parting glance? He was so different compared to Kristen. She welcomed Ed into her life relatively quickly with small smiles and witty banter Ed adored. She was going to react strongly to the situation with Oswald, whether in anger or humor Ed couldn’t tell, although he assumed the latter. She would rather tease him than berate.

A small wince slips free from Oswald, drawing Ed’s immediate attention. His hands flutter about, trying to piece together a way to assist him but before he can, Oswald’s breath evens out. The tension in Ed’s shoulders leaves him in a slow, drawn out huff; however, a question still burns on his tongue. Ed knew he wouldn’t receive an answer but that would not stop him from vocalizing his worries.

“What is the meaning behind _not your type_? Is this the file clerk/villain thing or are men not what you are interested in?” Ed leans forward, his face close enough to Oswald’s that he can feel his warm breath licking at his skin. “You are leaving me with too many unanswered questions, Mr. Cobblepot.” With a fond smile, Ed runs a finger down Oswald’s cheek and jaw. “It is a good thing puzzles are my forté, because you have become my latest project. I will figure you out sooner or later, but for now you need to rest. Sleep well, Oswald.”

Allowing himself one last look at Oswald’s peaceful face, Ed drags himself away from the man’s side and flops down onto the sofa. His fingers tap on his stomach as he waits for the man to awaken again, with hopes that he could convince Oswald he wouldn’t be a bad person to have in his life.

~~~

Oswald watches the white curtains blow in the warm breeze, afternoon sun pouring in across the floor, while someone strokes his hair. It’s a man, he’s sure—and not just any man, but his husband, he mind offers him. What a gentle thought. Oswald is married…he sinks into the affection, safe and secure in the bed he’s lying in, in the presence of the man he’s meant to spend his life with. The sound of the sea against sand outside the balcony is lovely, and that’s how Oswald knows he’s dreaming. He’s never seen the ocean in real life, and likely never will. Still, what a beautiful fantasy. Nothing hurts. Nothing is missing. Everything’s just as Oswald could have ever hoped.

He stuffs his face into the scratchy comforter as he starts to wake up, not wanting to leave his dream behind. For the second time, he crashes through the freefall from the unawareness that surrounds him in sleep into the shock of reality and all it entails. He quickly catalogues what he can remember—his leg is killing him, his boss probably thinks he’s dead (for all Oswald knows, his boss _is_ dead) and he’s been lying unconscious in a notorious murderer’s bed for god knows how long.

Peeking over the blankets, he looks for the man he’d spoken to before.

“Edward,” Oswald croaks. There’s something more disturbing about thinking he might be alone than still being watched over by that weird criminal. If he’s alone, and can’t stand, he’s really defenseless. At least Edward seems truthful about not having intention to harm him. “Edward, are you still here?” Oswald asks, voice weak as he tries to sit up. “What time is it? Where are you?” 

“In here,” Ed shouts from his place in the bathroom with an ever-growing smile on his face. Oswald is awake. He had hoped to have finished showering and dressing before this occurred but that was not the reality he found himself in. At least Oswald appears relatively more calm this morning, compared to the previous day. Running a towel through his wet locks, Ed fills with a renewed sense of purpose. Yesterday may not have went to plan but it was a new day and that always brought forth new opportunities. Oswald may yet agree to his requests, after all it is the least he could do after Ed saved him _and_ tended to his injuries. 

Peering down at his body, the smile on his Ed’s face falls as his brows knit together. This was a pickle. In his haste for a shower (after a restless night’s sleep), Ed had forgone gathering a fresh set of clothes and his previous outfit (which had slipped onto the floor) was now thoroughly saturated. _What now?_ Ed looks around for a shirt, tank…anything, however all he finds in another clean blue towel. He _could_ wrap it around his shoulders but surely Oswald would have a snide comment or two about that. After his failure in impressing the man the previous day, Ed doesn’t want to give him any more ammunition; at this rate, Ed would never be able to convince Oswald of anything. Opting to brave the day, Ed straightens his spine, slips on his glasses and exits the bathroom.

“Good morning, sleepy-head,” Ed says cheerily as he strolls towards the base of the bed, making sure the towel is tucked firm around his waist before meeting Oswald’s eyes. His heart rackets in his chest as Oswald’s gaze narrows, and in an attempt to protect himself Ed lifts a hand and scratches at the opposite collarbone, trying to make the action look less mechanical than it feels. “The time is…6:13am. You have been asleep for approximately nine hours and twenty seven minutes, which doesn’t account for the sleep you had before we last spoke. How are you feeling? Is there anything I can get for you?”

Oswald rakes his eyes over Edward _once_ , before glaring at him. He refuses to react, wills himself to not show any kind of emotion about this situation, because any reaction could be counterproductive. It’s not Edward himself that’s the problem—Oswald isn’t tempted that easily, and he has no context with which to actually appreciate seeing this man essentially naked. It’s the _principle_ , the _improper impoliteness_ of it that irks Oswald. The dark squeeze of paranoia deeply embedded in every nerve of Oswald’s body can’t help but be concerned by Edward’s brazen behavior, in case there’s _intent_ behind it.

“I feel as if I was drugged and maybe thrown into the back of a car’s trunk and driven around town at breakneck speed for a few hours. The former literal, the later metaphorical, of course.” Edward digs at his own collarbones again and Oswald can’t help but note how soft his skin looks. Didn’t he notice that before for some reason? He’s covered in light scars across his slender frame. For such a tall-looking person, his shoulders are notably sloped, making him seem even wispier. _Stop looking stop looking stop looking_ , he scolds himself. Flaring his nostrils as he exhales, Oswald makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, eyebrows pulled back. “Is there any reason you’re not dressed? Because there better not be.”

“You could be more polite, considering the fact that I _did_ rescue you.” Ed fixes Oswald with a stare as his palms adopt the same place they did the night before. Tightening them over the iron bar, Ed leans forward. “The drugs were for your betterment, Oswald—without them you would feel considerably worse…but perhaps you would like to feel that way, in which case, suit yourself.”

Without another glance, Ed strolls over to the dresser beside the bed and pulls out a pair of green briefs before turning his back on the man in the bed as he opens the closet. Ed scowls as he stares into the dark space. There was no way he was going to let his uneasiness over Oswald and his own undressed state to force himself back inside that hovel. Ripping clothes off the hanger, Ed slams the door closed. The action causes Oswald to startle and for a second, Ed’s frustrations lessen in worry over what could have caused such a visceral reaction but then a cool chill tickles his spine as Ed walks himself back into the bathroom, taking care to shut the door with a little more care.

“I don’t understand what his issue is,” Ed growls under his breath as he pulls his underwear up his long legs, followed quickly with a pair of dark tartan trousers. “I have been nothing but kind to him and yet he still dismisses me at every turn.”

The white tank top is slipped over his chest next and swiftly tucked into the waistband of his pants. “I mean what else can I do, he has my bed, my clothes, my care…he should want for nothing and yet the sight of me makes him angry.” Ed hastily pulls the red sweater overhead then frowns when he realises his outfit hardly coordinates. Ripping it off, Ed tosses it to the corner of the room. He is feeling too overheated to warrant wearing the ridiculous thing. This is his home, Oswald can complain about his clothes all he likes, but Ed won’t dress up just for him.

Throwing open the door, Ed strides over to Oswald and mock bows before straightening. “Am I to your approval now, you highness, or is there something else you’d like to snipe at me for?”

Trying to slow his panicked breathing, Oswald clenches the sheets, his hands, shoved under the comforter. He’d clearly forgotten who he was dealing with—too bad he’d never taken the time to learn anything about this man. After years studying every case, every detail he had pass his desk, heard muttered about in the lobby, Oswald quietly observed and built up his information archives in his mind on what was going on in his city. If only he hadn’t mentally checked out a few months ago…the irony isn’t funny at the moment and only makes him panic more, feeling that this series of bad misfortune was fated, and that his determination to stand up to this freak will be his undoing. How funny. In that sense, he’s made the bed he has to lie in now.

Edward stands before him, waiting for him to make the next move, while Oswald tries to calculate his next _several_ in advance.

_Yeah—definitely not my type,_ Oswald wants to hiss, but steels himself against the outburst. This man is too dangerous to speak to with honesty anymore. _What does he_ want _from me_? Oswald tries to remember if Edward had ever even made that _clear_. It didn’t seem like it. Approval? Kindness? Something along those lines.

Fearing he’ll actually panic if he has to simper and beg, Oswald decides to simply play-act. “No. I feel more comfortable now. Thank you, Edward, for honoring my request. It shows that you are a gentleman, to be concerned with my well-being.” The words feel icy and poisonous in his mouth, but hopefully it passes for whatever Edward had gotten fixated on outside that café two weeks ago. 

Ed’s face creases into a frown before softening as a smile slowly spreads across his features and happiness eradicates the frustration within him. He managed to impress Oswald? He’s done something right? Ed laughs and claps his hands twice as plops himself down on the edge of the bed. Oswald _still_ doesn’t appear completely relaxed in his presence, but that is something that will change in time, Ed was sure of it, especially now.

“I’m sorry for raising my voice at you, Oswald, usually I am more composed than that.” Ed reaches out and places his hand atop of Oswald’s shin, giving it a gentle pat, before drawing back sooner than he would have liked. He knows what it is like to be touched without permission: he has received enough beatings in his life to shy away from most people, but there was something about Oswald that drew him in like a magnet. “I will endeavour to treat you with the respect you deserve.”

“Now,” Ed says a little too enthusiastically, cheeks aching after holding his grin for so long, “is there something I help you with? Would you like a shower or some breakfast? I have been told I make fairly satisfying omelettes.”

_Thank god it worked_ , Oswald thinks—Chess Freak’s entire demeanor changed, and he seemed to buy Oswald’s act. A moment ago he swore this man would kill him for…what, rejecting him? Embarrassing him? Oswald couldn’t make sense of what was going on, but the point still stood that Edward, as goofy and innocent as he seemed, clapping and grinning like a fool, was still a killer and clearly unstable. There’s a hidden darkness to him, Oswald realizes. Not the “super-villain” nonsense. No, the volatile reactions, the unforeseen triggers that caused such a drastic switch in someone, hardwiring from some unknown hardship.

In other words, he’s like Oswald, but in reverse, so to speak. To see something in this man that he recognized in _himself_ was terrifying. Oswald realizes the need to start formulating a plan _now_ instead of just trying to dominate this Edward fool into backing off.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want you to have to go any more out of your way for me,” Oswald drops his head to the side, exaggeratedly frowning. “I do _love_ a good omelette, but that’s more work than you should have to do at 6 in the morning. No, I’ll be fine,” he waves his hand, the other pressed to his chest. “But…if you’re making breakfast _anyway_ , I won’t say no…”

Before Edward can cut in again, Oswald places a hand on his bare forearm to keep Edward still, mirroring his forward touches (it’s a simple psychological hack). “And you’re right—I didn’t know how to ask nicely, since the drugs make me feel so _ill_ , make me…not myself, you know—I don’t want anymore, as generous as the offer is. I have a very high pain tolerance, I assure you.” Best to get _that_ potential roadblock out of the way. “Maybe you can explain to me what happened yesterday, when you found me. While you cook.” The last word comes out sharply, Oswald struggling to stay this repressed and extent false politeness when he rarely needed to do such a thing with anyone in his life.

Ed looks down at Oswald’s hand on his arm before peering back up at the man with raised brows and a shy grin. “I can do that for you, Oswald.” Ed would do almost anything Oswald asks, especially if it garnered him the gentle affection he has craved throughout his life. Oswald’s hand was still on his arm, held there significantly longer than Ed deemed necessary. _What does this mean?_ Dropping his gaze, Ed runs his fingertips across Oswald’s knuckles and down to the beginning of his wrist, tracing each tendon and line as he stares transfixed. Oswald’s hands were unlike any he had seen before. For such a small man they appear out of proportion, long fingers, wide palm, strong grip. On any other they probably wouldn’t work but on Oswald they were—

“ _Beautiful_.”

Ed gasps and snaps his eyes to Oswald’s as extracts himself out of his hold. He didn’t mean to speak, his mouth worked without permission, uttering silent thoughts. What has he done? Oswald was going to think him a fool.

Running a hand across the back of his neck, Ed’s eyes dart around the room, landing on everything and anything that isn’t Oswald. He didn’t want to see the repulsion in his eyes…after all there was no telling if Oswald was interested in men, let alone Ed. This was one thing that still required clarification but Ed felt as though that they were not yet close enough for such a deep conversation to occur.

“I…you…” Ed huffs as he struggles to remember Oswald’s last request. _What was it?_ There was mentions of food and… _omelettes,_ Oswald said he loved omelettes. Biting his lip with a smile, Ed ducks his head and scurries off to the kitchen, pulling out all the pots, pans and ingredients necessary to cook Oswald’s meal.

After cracking six eggs and whisking them together, Ed throws his head over his shoulder to peer at his new friend. “You wanted to know about yesterday?” Oswald nods and Ed mirrors his movements. “I can tell you.” Cutting himself off before he begins, Ed pours the egg mixture into the heated pan, feeling satisfied at the resulting sizzle. “It all began with Kr— _Red_ calling me. She said there was a… _situation_ happening at the GCPD. Don’t ask me what she was doing there, for I have little to no idea.” Ed threw a smile in Oswald’s direction; that wasn’t the honest truth, for Ed did have _some_ idea, but it was more speculation at this point in time, hardly anything worth mentioning. Teasing the edges of the omelette Ed frowns. It wasn’t ready to flip yet.

“So…main points. Red called me and said that you—your _workplace_ was under siege, and I rushed right over. I mean, I may be against you all but what fun is there if someone takes down the institution _I_ live to outsmart.” A smirk teases Ed’s lips as he thinks back to all the times he has embarrassed the _fine_ officers of the GCPD. Each moment filled him with a sense of superiority he could hardly find elsewhere. “So the ‘bad boys’ rerun duo went in guns ablazing, they hardly have my finesse, and honestly what _were_ they thinking. You could have been killed!” Ed slaps the spatula down onto the bench as he grits his teeth, the sound cuts sharp through his ears. It was a miracle Ed made it in time to dissuade Jim from committing a grievous crime. Despite his past crush on the man, Ed would have never forgiven Jim if he’d killed Oswald.

Flipping the omelette over, Ed takes a deep breath followed by another, forcing his body to calm. The pan sizzles, flinging small droplets of oil that burn Ed’s skin. He pays them no mind, opting to fill a glass with orange juice before topping a plate with Oswald’s breakfast. Carrying the two items over to the man in the bed, Ed hands him the plate and places the cup on the bedside table. Oswald stares at him then down at his meal. He wasn’t smiling. A nervous energy settles inside Ed’s stomach before he notices the reason for Oswald’s mood. No cutlery. Rushing back into the kitchen, Ed grabs the utensils and all but shoves them in Oswald’s hand. _That’s better._ Settling at the foot of the bed, Ed leans against the metal bars and crosses his legs, watching intently as Oswald begins to cut into the omelette.

“So, when I made it to the GCPD, I couldn’t find Red…I can’t thank you enough for saving her, Oswald.” Ed pauses to release a shuddered breath as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You acted so valiantly, jumping forth to protect rather than hiding to keep yourself safe, but you managed to get yourself injured in the process. I could not let your deed go unrewarded, and the ignoramuses you work with had enough on their hands so I brought you back here. However…you were in a hyperactive state of intense panic. I apologise for drugging you, but it was required, as you were building towards a seizure.” Reaching out a hand, Ed places it on Oswald’s shin, massaging it gently. “I promise that I treated you with all the care and respect you deserve. My actions were tailored towards your betterment. There was no malicious intention, not now, not ever.”

It was hard for Oswald to figure out what his heart was pounding more out of. First off, he’d lied—he was in immense pain, but refused to let himself be drugged again. Pain was something Oswald could grit his teeth through.

Watching Chess Freak have _another_ anger outburst made Oswald’s blood run cold. Surely this nightmare counted as the most intense morning of his life. How was this Oswald’s reality now? At least Edward’s outbursts weren’t physically directed at him. The man seemed to have trouble processing his emotions; in a way, Oswald related to that, as well, but he kept his bitterness to his words, the majority of it forever internalized, where it was _safe_ and where it _belonged_. Unlike Edward, Oswald wasn’t an actual threat to anyone. He needed to keep reminding himself of that so he wouldn’t fall under the sway of Edward’s otherwise docile, almost subservient _glee_ to “take care of” Oswald.

Maybe it was the cross of emotions that should never be combined that scared Oswald the most, such as the hand he’d left on Edward’s arm too long (his skin _was_ soft, dammit). Oswald tried to suppress the shudder that ran through him when he reflected on the way Edward stroked the back of his hand. Something about the touch was too similar to the dream he’d had before he woke up, and that disturbed him more than having Chess Freak _petting_ him. It was too gentle, too _reverent_ , to make sense with the outbursts he’d had before, when Oswald feared violent retaliation for whatever perceived slight Edward thought he’d received.

_For fuck’s sake, I don’t have Stockholm Syndrome,_ Oswald internally reprimands himself, gripping the fork with all his pent-up rage. _He’s erratic, and as long I don’t let him catch me off-guard, that’s how I’m going to get out of this. All that needs to be done is to use his very nature against him._

Edward looks _frightened_ for a split-second, and Oswald forcibly relaxes his muscles, smiling as he thanks him for breakfast. Edward laughs in response, his face softening so drastically he looks like a different version of himself.

The gears in Oswald’s mind whirl as he processes the combination of behaviors from Edward—the lip-biting smiles, whispered compliments, the general demeanor of dopiness.

Oh god, he was _presenting_ himself before, wasn’t he?

_Why is he attracted to me?_

Oswald shakes away that line of thinking with a series of rapid blinks while cutting into the omelette Edward made him. Bad sign Edward wasn’t eating, too. If Oswald played with the food, and keeps him distracted with conversation, it was likely Edward wouldn’t notice he wasn’t _eating it_ , though he is sitting directly in front of Oswald, hands in his lap and pathetically _adoring_ smile on his face.

“I remember what happened now,” Oswald admits, solemnly. “Your partner—Red. I found her near my desk when the commissioner ordered me back inside to look for missing personnel. I thought she was a civilian; she blends in well. She froze up when the first explosion went off, and went utterly…shell-shocked when the blond tried to shoot me. If I’m correct, that was Gordon. Low-level thug. Partners with an older criminal named Bullock. They usually kill off GCPD for street cred.”

Looking away, lost in his own recollections, Oswald is transported back to the hell of yesterday. “Gordon’s partner got angry, pointed his gun at Red, screamed his head off. I couldn’t hear them, my ears were still ringing from the gunshot near my head. Another explosion went off—as soon as I saw the flash out of the corner of my eye, I grabbed her and pinned her down, acted as a shield. I didn’t know what else to do.” _Her shock seemed a symptom of prior PTSD_ , Oswald assumes now in review. Poor woman. What is _wrong_ with all of them? “Something landed on us, and I couldn’t move. She managed to wiggle out—I helped push her, too—and she tried to drag me out in return, but to no avail. I told her to run; I’d already accepted my fate. I think I blacked out after that.”

Finally looking back in Edward’s direction again, he’s surprised to see the look on the man’s face, with lips still parted, eyes huge and focused. “I guess that’s when you stepped in, so, thank you for that,” Oswald tacks onto his story, remembering the need to keep this man appeased. He _would_ be grateful, would feel honored and touched that someone came to his rescue, someone who technically didn’t know him, but there is some dark, twisted logic behind Edward’s “kindness,” and Oswald refuses to believe it has anything to do with the nice things Edward keeps saying about him, for the sole fact that his behavior is too inconsistent to take it as truth.

Oswald shoves pieces of the omelette around quickly; Edward tracks his every movement with focused eyes. _Dammit, stop looking at me!_

Inspiration strikes Oswald fast, and he moves accordingly. It will either get him killed, because he is _wrong_ , or it is going to work _beautifully_ , because Oswald is reading the weirdo correctly.

Dropping his free hand on Edward’s, still caressing his shin, Oswald hopes for the distraction to take, and it seems to work. Edward’s mouth drops open, his gaze transfixed on their hands instead of Oswald’s plate. If only there was some way he could get rid of the omelette…he’ll have to fake it for now.

Bending towards the plate, he ducks his head low enough that his fringe obscures his own view, and should shield his face. He arches his fingertips along the back of Edward’s hand, gripping and rubbing the skin there, hoping to add to the distraction while he pretends to shovel omelette bites into his mouth.

“ _Mmhmm_ ,” he moans dramatically, making sure he makes a completely inappropriate version of the noise, as he drops the knife on the blanket near him. “ _Delicious_ , Edward,” he compliments, lifting his head to look up. “Here, have some with me, you must be so hungry!” He stabs a piece of omelette and extends the fork towards Edward, while flicking his other wrist so the knife he’d been working on shoving up his sleeve falls back against his elbow.

Edward can’t quite remember how to breathe. It should be an automatic response, he knows this, his body should not have forgotten how to do something it was preprogrammed to do since before birth, yet as Oswald caresses his hand and offers a forkful of food, Ed believes he could have died. Surely this was a dream, something akin to heaven if he believed in such a thing.

No…he didn’t die. Ed’s heart beats erratically in his chest as he tilts his head and stares at Oswald. The small constellations of freckles shine brightly beneath dazzling eyes. Ed wants to reach out and stroke Oswald’s cheek again (like he did when Oswald was sleeping) but he doesn’t think that would be an accepted move. However, as Oswald’s fingertips dance across his skin, Ed begins to believe that it just might be.

There is only one way Oswald’s actions can be interpreted. People don’t act like this towards him; no, usually they are more repulsed by Ed and his building affections. Despite Ed’s earlier outburst, Oswald has yet to shy away from him. He accepted his food and touch. _What’s next?_

The forkful of omelette brushes Ed’s bottom lip, snapping him back to his current setting. Ed ducks his head with a smile and a series of rapid blinks, resisting the urge to touch his mouth. Instead, he opts for licking his bottom lip as he faces Oswald with heated cheeks.

“I…are you sure? I mean I made this for _you._ ”

Oswald lifts his jaw and narrows his eyes; such a simple action almost forces Ed to draw in on himself. Not wanting to have Oswald upset with him again, Ed leans forward and accepts Oswald’s offering.

Ed chews and quickly swallows. It was good, not as good as Oswald made it sound but he wasn’t about to argue against hearing such a vocal noise. Turning his hand over, Ed grazes the underside of Oswald’s palm. “Are you planning on eating anymore, Oswald? You’ve barely had anything.” Ed frowns as he wonders if was an aftereffect of the drugs or his injury.

Oswald stares at Edward, amazed that he ate the omelette with no hesitation. Is it really not poisoned? Oswald picked a random piece of it to give Edward; there’s no way he could’ve faked eating it either as Oswald watched the series of muscles in his jaw work and his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed it. Maybe this Edward fellow is telling the truth. He has no ill-will.

Oswald looks back down at the plate. He is _so_ hungry, but…

“I confess—my appetite is affected by how poorly I feel and all I’ve been through since yesterday. However, I must try!” He flashes a grin at Edward without meaning to. Feeling less afraid of the man already, the cool metal of the cutlery up his sleeve reminds him to keep expecting the unexpected, and be doubly prepared for each new changing aspect of this bizarre dance between him and this man who is either his caregiver or captor—or worse yet, both.

Edward strokes the inside of Oswald’s palm, watching his finger’s movements intently, his head bowed, a curl of his drying hair falls and lays on his forehead. His chest barely moves and other than his hand caressing Oswald’s, he is still. It’s troubling to see him so peaceful after his prior behaviors; it makes Oswald’s heart wrench, for he realizes he’s seeing the human underneath the persona Edward wreaks havoc on Gotham City and her people with. Behind all that mental unwellness and violence is a man who looks five times softer than anyone his age or stature should; he looks almost fragile and most definitely _lonely_.

_How is that possible_ , Oswald wonders, gulping down the rising instinct to reach out and comfort someone clearly suffering. _How can you be so many things at once? Who are you, really?_

“Here, have another bite,” Oswald extends the fork again and Edward obeys him silently, his eyebrows furrowed. Oswald can’t use this fork now anyway, even if he wants to give in and eat some of the omelette. For now, he rests the fork on the plate. 

Resting against headboard, Oswald takes his hand back with him, disconnecting them from each other. “Can you tell me what the extent of my injuries are?” he asks. He hadn’t even had a chance to look for himself, what with all of Edward’s ever-present hovering.

Ed cradles his hand to his chest, trying to keep a hold of the warmth Oswald left behind. He wasn’t ready for it to fade away; he wants to entwine it with his very being to stave off the creeping loneliness that plagues him all too often. Ed’s eyes shift between Oswald’s face and his knee. It was only a matter of time before this conversation arose, and for the first time since meeting Oswald, Ed dreads having to speak with him.

Shuffling forward with a blank face, Ed moves the plate from Oswald’s lap to the dresser before reaching for his hands once more. Physical contact helps and he would need the support.

With raised brows Ed takes a breath. A sinking feeling shoots like lead in his stomach as he brushes his thumbs across Oswald’s knuckles. _Why were things never easy?_ Oswald managed to get himself severely injured in saving Kristen’s life, an injury that would likely never heal, and now Ed has to break the bad news. Will Oswald hate him because of it? 

“It’s bad,” Ed says quietly. Oswald’s eyes widen and a look of fear flashes through them. Ed knows that look, he’s seen it often enough to recognize it. “Your patella was dislodged and even after fixing it back into place…” Ed pauses to sigh, “Oswald, it’s been shattered along with a portion of your tibia and as a result the muscles around it have been severely weakened.”

Ed pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then takes Oswald’s hand again. He has yet to say a word and Ed doesn’t blame him. It must be quite the shock.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Oswald. If I’d made it to the GCPD earlier, I might have been able to save you from suffering this fate.” Giving Oswald’s hands a squeeze and a sad smile, Ed draws back. He is probably the last person Oswald wants to comfort him right now.

“The pain must be excessive, are you sure you don’t want any pain killers? Or perhaps you’d like to confirm my assessment and take a look yourself, but I must warn you…it’s not a pretty sight.”

Without a moment of hesitation, Oswald rips his hands from Edward’s and tears all the layers of bed dressings he’s under away with the arm that has nothing up its sleeve. There’s the damage Edward was talking about—his leg looks horrible, bruised and twisted. There’s smatterings of small bandages where there must have been cuts. His other leg is bruised as well, but apparently not broken.

“What’s wrong with this one?” he gestures, his voice shaking. “I can barely feel it…” His legs…how…how is he going to walk again, let alone get out of here?

“Why didn’t you take me to a hospital!” Oswald screeches, the horror of remembering that the reason he couldn’t stand yesterday wasn’t exhausting, but is becuase of _this_ , what might be permanent damage, and instead of getting him help, this lunatic kidnapped him, what, so they could _hold hands_ ? The probability that Edward’s assessment is _correct_ makes Oswald’s blood run cold. No one knows Oswald is here; what if his injury heals incorrectly? Conflicting thoughts clang and collide in Oswald’s head.

“What, are you a doctor? You keep saying you want to help me—then start talking, because right now…” Hot tears form in Oswald’s eyes and his voice cracks. He’s letting his emotions control him; he’s sliding right into making Edward angry again. _Fuck._

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes weakly. This—this right here—is the lowest moment of the rollercoaster of the last hour of so of his life. “I’m scared,” he confesses. It might be wiser to appeal to Edward’s human side than keep acting, not after his own outburst. “I want to know why I’m _here_ when I could…if there’s even a chance to fix this…” he swallows, reaching forward to touch his own legs and leaping back with a howl of pain after he lightest of touches. “Is it because you don’t trust me, because I’m GCPD? I didn’t know who your partner was. I’m not going to…” Gulping air, Oswald’s dignity cracks further and it makes him sob harder. _Fish must think I’m dead, if she is still alive._ ”Explain yourself, _Ed_! You want me to like you? Start here!”

Ed blinks away the prickling sensation in his eyes and resists the urge to draw Oswald into his arms. He wants to comfort the distraught man, to hug him until his wounds heal and his mind clears but the pain and fear blazing back at Ed from behind red rimmed sea green eyes keeps him firmly in place.

“I…” Ed’s words catch in his throat as more tears fall down Oswald’s heated cheeks. “Y-you, I didn’t…excuse me.” Without another word Ed rushes into the bathroom and closes the door, and slides down against it. As he sits on the cold tiled ground he runs his hands over his face, slipping his finger tips beneath his lenses, struggling to rid himself of the broken man waiting in his bed for answers. “This isn’t my fault,” Ed utters into his palms, “this isn’t my fault yet you hate me, you blame me, and I can’t figure out why.”

~~~

The knife is nice. It’s an actual dinner knife, sharp point, thick blade, solid wood handle. Chess Freak has exquisite taste in cutlery. Oswald had a chance to size his only weapon up, pulling it from his sleeve and inspecting it while Ed talked to himself in the bathroom. He couldn’t heard what the man said, just that he was speaking to himself behind the closed door. Mind reeling, Oswald scans the room for anything else useful. He has no idea where his clothes are, besides the white undershirt and black boxers he has on, thankfully his _own_ , and the plaid robe he’s woken up in both times ( _not_ his). Shoes are hardly going to matter if he can’t _walk_. Forcing himself to study his legs, Oswald can see Edward must have abandoned the attempt to make a splint, but with his kneecap busted, it would’ve done little good. Oswald would be laid up for weeks with an injury like this, and since he was planning on making a run for it, Edward was right—it would never heal right.

The price to be paid.

Ed throws his head back against the door with a huff. He can’t stay here moping in the bathroom, not when Oswald is waiting for answers. Hauling himself to his feet, Ed wets a face cloth with warm water and takes a deep breath as he exits the bathroom. He doesn’t say anything as he approaches Oswald; Ed keeps his gaze lowered until he sits beside him. Lifting his eyes and the facecloth, Ed pauses when Oswald stiffens.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers with full sincerity as he lowers the warm cloth to Oswald’s cheek, cleaning away the evidence of his tears. “I wish you would believe me when I say that I am only trying to help. The hospital would have done as I did. Shy of replacing all your shattered bones, there is little that can be done to help you.”

All of Ed’s words are spoken as softly as his gentle touches. He doesn’t want Oswald to see him as a monster, a threat to his very life. Maybe if he continues to show Oswald care and affection he will come to believe him. There is a chance he already does—Oswald said he was scared but he didn’t say what of. Dropping the washcloth after one last swipe, Ed frowns at Oswald’s less mangled leg.

“You can’t feel it?” Oswald shakes his head and his eyes water with fresh tears. “ _Shh_ ,” Ed hushes as his insides clench in fear of what this could mean. Perhaps he should have taken Oswald to the hospital…no, no they wouldn’t have known about it till now either. “It’ll be okay. I’ll help you.” 

Taking initiative, Ed places his hands on Oswald’s numb leg and probes the area with his fingers. He pulls forth his knowledge of anatomy and massages Oswald’s thigh, digging his thumbs into the muscles, hoping to stimulate the nerves. “I want you to let me know when you feel something, Oswald. From there we can plan what comes next.” Ed continues to slide his hands up and down, not knowing if his touch is unwelcomed or accepted. Oswald has yet to make a complaint but Ed puts that down to his waging emotions.

Oswald suffers through Edward’s pointless blathering, cleaning his face, groping his way up Oswald’s leg, asking in that pathetically placating voice what they could _do next_ after Oswald gets feeling back in both legs.

To think—he’d almost been swayed by this freak’s words, by the softness he thought was present in him, despite the glaring inability to conduct himself appropriately. Oswald knew he’d made the right call to stay distrusting and judge him on his actions instead.

Gripping the knife behind his back, fist concealed under the pillow behind him, the first dull tingles of sensation return to his leg as he watches Edward’s hands rove over his thigh. The man’s eyes are glazed over as he massages his way up Oswald’s leg with precision. So that’s what he’s dealing with. This freak gets off on the “wounded bird” fantasy. Oswald thought there might be more to it—the criminal partner, the men who tried to kill him at the GCPD, but no, Oswald’s just here to be this man’s _toy_.

Rage licks at Oswald’s guts. He’s not going to stay here and be _played with_ , no matter how lonely or sad the man across from him is. It’s sick.

“You said yesterday that you wanted to _be_ like me. Why? Elaborate. Be specific,” Oswald asks, tone low as he considers the number of steps it would take to get from the rotary phone on the desk to the coat rack by the door. The breakfast plate is always an option, too.

Before he dooms his legs to irrevocable damage and truly endangers his own life, he needs answers. That, and he needs a cell phone, a clear path to the exit, or he’s only going to get himself killed instantly. He’s seen the anger flick on enough in this man for one morning to not doubt it won’t happen again.

“Is there something you need from me? Something you _want_?” He punctuates this point by bending his knee, hissing through the excruciating agony of it, fresh tears, albeit of a new kind, flooding his eyes. He ends up sinking down, into Edward’s hands, shaking as he tries to brace himself on his arms.

“I recall pointing out that we aren’t really each other’s _type_.” Oswald’s sinking himself here, and he’s doing it on purpose. If Edward is going to flip out first, the next sentence will do it. The omelette test proved that. “I—I certainly know how hard it is to find a nice man to call your own in this city, but I assure you, there’s many who would suit you better than I would.”

Ed halts his roaming hands to consider Oswald’s words. Why does he want him? It was under chance circumstance Ed had even laid eyes on Oswald at the GCPD. After reaching his breaking point, feeling all too agitated with the continual use of _Chess Killer,_ Ed sought to right the issue himself. He snuck into the police department and made his way down to the file room after causing a ruckus in the grand arena as a distraction.

Ed saw Oswald sitting there amongst his boxes and files and was about to convince him to amend his file when a thought struck Ed. Oswald held the keys to information on every criminal in the city, _including_ Ed’s enemies. He could be an excellent resource should he be swayed to Ed’s own side. However, as he stood there watching the file clerk in his small room, undertaking a simple-minded task, Ed noted the loneliness on his face. It was all too similar to the blank mask Ed has seen in the mirror.

“We’re the same,” Ed utters into his chest, “and I know by societal standards we are on opposite sides but we’re the same, Oswald. We’re both lonely, it might not be the basis to start anythingm but you can’t deny it’s not true.” 

Beneath his hands Oswald’s body shakes, vibrating with what Ed assumes is pain. “You need to relax, Oswald. All that tension will only make things worse.” Frowning at the tears on Oswald’s face, Ed considers the sedatives he has stashed away. Perhaps it would be better to put Oswald back under, at least until he stops moving about. The first few days after an injury were always the most painful; it might do him some good to get some rest. Ed tosses the idea around in his head before ultimately deciding against it. If Oswald was asleep, then they wouldn’t be able to talk and Ed has some things he wants to say.

Straightening his spine after pushing his glasses back up his nose, Ed stares at Oswald, unblinkingly. “I want you to help me, to teach me to be _good._ Villainy has done me well, but this life is not always a fulfilling one. I want to change that. People smile at you when you pass them by. I only receive scowls, I’ve only _ever_ received negative reactions, until the day I met you in the coffee shop.” Ed huffs out a breath of laughter and begins massaging Oswald again, his fingers curl around his thigh as his thumbs press deeply into the tense tissue. Oswald was a kind man, so different to all the other people Ed has been interested in. He could save him from living out his entire life in the shadows.

“I can be good for you, Oswald. I will prove it. You might not think we are well-suited, but have you given that thought?”

Ed tilts his head and ghosts his fingertips along Oswald’s leg. He wishes Oswald would give him a chance; Ed isn’t a bad man. Yes, a few people died by his hands but that wasn’t his fault, it was human error. They made fatal mistakes when the answers were right in front of them. Ed always gave people the keys to save themselves—whether they failed or not was based on their decisions.

Oswald fails at biting back the new wave of tears. He and Ed _are_ the same. It wasn’t so many years ago that a falsely simpering Oswald Cobblepot kneeled before a GCPD detective, begging her to let him go if he swore to be her servant. She wouldn’t have any of it, and extended a chance for him to walk back into the light if he so chose it, warning him that she’d been partway down his same path and it had lead nowhere fulfilling.

If Fish hadn’t saved him from himself…Oswald couldn’t even imagine the terror he might be now.

Maybe he would be like Edward.

How has fate found him in the same scenario twice, forcing him to act out both roles?

“I can tell you now that path you’re headed on is full of nothing but misery and destruction,” Oswald whispered, mind still made up.

Lunging forward, he thrusts the knife against Edward’s neck, tears still streaming down his own face.

“You don’t want a mentor, you don’t even respect me—you—you tried to manipulate me into this! Your nice words don’t hide that you’re a _monster_!” Oswald shouts, voice broken. Edward’s face cracks and his eyes betray his devastation. Pushing the knife in close enough that Edward’s skin turns white around the edges, Oswald feels time freeze around them, Edward’s hands still on him, their eyes locked.

“I know…” Ed whispers as the knife bites the skin of his neck, “I know.” The blade shakes slightly, a sign of Oswald’s pain and fury. Any misstep Ed makes will result in his life flowing from him in a thick red river. Ed knows he should be careful, but his emotions resurface and build so quickly that they send his heart racing and his mind whirling. Oswald has a knife to his neck, how? _Breakfast._

Ed lifts his chin and pulls Oswald closer by the shoulders till their noses brush and the blade splits his skin ever so slightly. Ed doesn’t care—Oswald could do worse and he wouldn’t make a move to save himself. He’d tried that by voicing his request. “Don’t you think I know I’m a monster,” he says through clenched teeth, “why do think I asked for your help.”

His breath rushes out of his nose in hard, fast pants. He doesn’t know whether he wants to pull Oswald closer, push him away or goad him into taking that next fatal step. In the end Ed settles for tightening his hold on Oswald’s shoulders resulting in a pained look passing over his features. _No! No no no._

Dropping shaking hands to his sides, Ed’s eyes begin to prickle with unshed tears. Yet again he has hurt someone, someone he respects and is interested in. Ed deflates, spine curving as he bows his head, hanging it over the knife that is slicing his throat. _Did_ he manipulate Oswald? Ed doesn’t know. He brought Oswald here to help him break away from the darkness but maybe he doesn’t deserve help, maybe he belongs in the dark where all monsters dwell.

Ed’s Adam’s apple grazes the blade as he swallows. “I know, Oswald…I know I’m not good, I’m not safe and I—I regularly question my sanity.” Ed lifts his eyes and the tears that have been collecting spill down his cheeks. This isn’t how he envisioned his day panning out, but then again he should have expected it; after all, how often did his plans succeed?

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked this of you. You don’t know me, there’s no reason you’d ever agree.” Ed gently wraps his fingers around Oswald’s wrist and steadies his shaking hand. Wet tears continue to roll down his cheeks, Oswald’s too, with more quickly following. “There are only two options left for me now. My life is in your hands, Oswald, either help me or…” Ed closes his eyes and tightens his hold on Oswald’s wrist. A brief thought of Kristen flashes through his mind but Ed pushes it away. She would be fine without him, better even. Everyone probably would be.

Edward seems to _want_ Oswald to kill him, what with the death grip of his hand clenched around Oswald’s wrist. Oswald can barely see through his eyes from the tears that swim in them; he’s cried so much already that his mouth feels dry and his head is pounding. With Edward’s blood already sliding down the knife from how hard he’s leaning and pushing into it, his eyes are grief-stricken, exposing that he’s truly given up. Their faces still pressed together, Oswald stares Edward in the eyes as they reopen, an unspoken conversation flowing and flying between them as Oswald tries to process what has just happened.

He grabs Edward’s wrist roughly and pulls the tangle of their hands, and most importantly, the knife, away from Edward’s throat.

There’s a part of Oswald, a loud, screaming, painful center of sympathy and pain, that makes him want to pull the broken man before him into his arms and hold him, despite the fact that he thought the Chess Killer might murder him most of the morning.

Tossing the knife across the room without even looking to see where it lands, Oswald presses the sleeve of the bathrobe into Edward’s neck, the base of the same hand that had been holding him at knifepoint now at his throat to try to stop the bleeding. Unable to stay in the same position anymore, Oswald falls back into the sitting position he’d been in before, still needing to pitch forward to reach Edward’s neck.

_You’re so much further gone than I ever was,_ Oswald cries harder as he repeats the thought in his mind, his legs searing in pain, while Edward remains still, tears falling down his cheeks silently. 

“Bandage this up,” Oswald tells him. “I know you know how.” Oswald pushes on the back of his hand with his free one, scared at how fast the warm liquid is spreading into the fabric. “Then you’re going to take me to a hospital, and drop me off, and leave.”

It takes Oswald a moment to realize that he’s not the only one quaking; Edward is, too—he’s still breathing too hard and too fast. At least now he looks shocked more than suicidal.

“We’re doing this on _my_ terms,” Oswald demands, sucking back snot with a sharp inhale through his nose. “Do you get that? My terms!” Drawing his head back more to get a better look at Edward, he pulls his lips back, breathing hard and staring Edward down. “I will help you, Edward, but you are not going to ever call the shots like this again. I will meet with you, I will try to lead you, but you will never do something without asking me first again. That’s lesson one—respect.” _I had a hard time learning it, too, but not as hard a time as this_. Oswald closes his eyes a moment, the exhaustion of this exchange and the memories it’s brought back crushing his heart, along with the reveal of Edward Nygma’s own pain breaking Oswald’s heart as well. “Every word you said about helping me was true. I’m sorry,” Oswald chokes out through the phlegm and tears. “But you didn’t give me much reason to believe you. You have a chance now to start.”

“Thank you, Oswald,” Ed says in a quiet whisper as hot tears roll down his cheeks. He can’t believe he’s still alive, he was almost certain all the rage Oswald directed at him was going to result in his death. At least now he has a chance to fix some of the wrongdoings of his past and create a better future for himself. Oswald has agreed, and Ed is eternally grateful.

“Thank you,” Ed repeats in a louder voice as his hands rise to his neck. He gives a gentle rub to to Oswald’s wrist, nothing like the grip he had on it moments ago. Oswald pulls his hand away and flops back against the pillows with a groan. Every thought in Ed’s mind is telling him to tend to Oswald’s needs, to assist him in anyway he can but he knows that Oswald would rather he take care of own his injury so with a forlorn look, Ed rises and makes his way to the bathroom for the fourth time that morning.

Ed doesn’t bother closing the door, instead he opts for retrieving the small medical kit from beneath the sink. He dons his gloves and controls his breath, overly aware of the trickle of blood running down the front of his throat. _That’s going to scar,_ Ed thinks as he peers into the mirror transfixed as he traces the gash. It was no wonder Oswald looked so worried, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Blinking out a few tears, Ed opens the alcohol swabs and cleans his wound then swiftly wraps the bandage around his tender throat. There was no way he is going to be able to hide this from Kristen later. Ed knows she is going to pester him with questions he doesn’t have answers for and she’ll probably scold him, too. It’s well within her rights: Ed has been foolish and reckless, but what else is new.

Tossing everything in the bin, Ed takes one more look at his neck. A faint line of blood has already begun to seep through the white bandage. A scarf should help hide this from the public as Ed takes Oswald to the…to the hospital. Worry laces through him, forcing him to lean forward and grab the edge of the sink. He wishes Oswald wouldn’t leave him, Ed isn’t ready to part ways but he understands. Oswald has his own needs to see to; Ed can’t expect him to be there for him whenever he wants. He only hopes that their time apart doesn’t see result in Oswald drawing away as Ed needs him more than he could possibly voice. 

Exiting the bathroom, Ed sniffs and swipes at his cheeks, he gathers Oswald’s belongings, (the tattered remains of the clothes he was once wearing) and shoves them in a plastic bag, all before returning to his side. Ed hands Oswald the bag as he rushes to finish dressing, tossing on the discarded jumper from earlier, coupling it with a dark scarf before sliding on his shoes.

Oswald watches Edward finish dressing for a moment before digging into the bag he’s handed him of his belongings. The bandage around Ed’s neck is what catches Oswald’s attention—never had he intended for his attempt to use cutlery as a _threat_ to turn into actual injury. He never thought it would go that far, even in the worst scenarios he plotted out in his mind. As long as Ed let him leave freely, Oswald had no intention of injuring him, since for all of Edward’s unacceptable behavior, he had never hurt Oswald either, at least.

Swallowing down the raw emotions still coursing through his own veins, Oswald tries to shake the memory of how _ready_ Edward looked to be _killed_. That moment changed the conversation, the _relationship_ between them with its brutal honesty. Edward may have manipulated Oswald by bringing him here without his consent, and with trying to encounter him at work, but there was no performance, no _forethought_ , in Edward’s suicidal recklessness—just the clear indications of a man who had fallen off the deep end a long time ago. Adjusting the framework of all of Edward’s behavior sent a chill up his spine, and he gave up trying to make sense of it at the moment, instead focusing on looking for his cell phone. The front screen is smashed in and the plastic cover over the battery pack is cracked, but at least it still flips open and turns on. Missed call alerts flood the screen (the GCPD, Zsasz, _Fish_ ); it blinks as missed voicemail messages are downloaded to the phone over the network.

“Oswald…I, I’m going to…” Ed stammers before forcing himself to calm just enough that his words run smoothly. “You see, I need to carry you down to the car. I understand it might not be the most enjoyable moment but it really would be best to keep as much weight off your knee as possible. I don’t want to see your injury worsen.”

He turns back to Oswald and leans forward ready to pick him up only to pull back at the last second. _Respect. Oswald mentioned respect._ Ed shouldn’t touch nor make decisions for him. “Do you mind if I pick you up. I promise you, it truly is the only way this can be done.”

Oswald sighs heavily and nods his assent. “You did say you carried me here, I assume you can carry me out?”

Edward reaches out again to lift Oswald; he throws his arm over Edward’s shoulder to try to help balance, his belongings sitting in his lap. “I’m not sure I could’ve walked out of here,” Oswald admits, his voice muffled by Edward’s sweater. He feels vulnerable admitting it, but with all that has passed between them in the last half hour, vulnerability seems unavoidable at this point. “If I still lose the ability to walk correctly, I’d like to cause as little extra damage as possible.”

Carrying him down the stairs, Edward is quiet. Oswald feels some moisture in his hair and assumes Edward might still be crying; he’s not ready to pull his face back and look at the broken man again, afraid he’ll start crying again, too, if he has to look into the pain in those lost, depressed-looking brown eyes.

“Thank you, Edward,” Oswald says as they descend the stairs. He thanks him again as he loads him into the car, this time in a strained, tear-choked sob. He presses the back of his hand against his mouth before quickly wiping the tears away and breathing harshly, trying to return to some form of stoicism.

Edward fumbles with the keys but finally gets the car started. Oswald snaps a picture of the outside of the building Edward’s apartment and types the street location into phone once he can see the street signs. Edward remains silent.

“What? I’m not calling the police. I meant what I asked. Just take me to the hospital, that’s fair enough for now.” Oswald extends a hand and waves his fingers. “Give me your phone,” he tells Edward. With both of them open side by side, he swaps contact info, typing quickly with both his thumbs, while Edward drives.

“When we get there, grab a wheelchair and help me in it. I’ll take myself into the hospital; you leave before anyone notices. I am going to have to contact my superiors when I get there, so it would be wise for you to not be around when the place starts drowning in police.” Oswald snaps Edward’s phone shut, puts it on the seat between them, and looks out the window. The hospital isn’t far; Edward lives in the center of the city, surprisingly. Oswald would have assumed anyone devoted to costumed crime would live some far-flung, out of the way place on the edges of the city proper, not in the heart of it in a casual, average apartment. The sheer fact that the Chess Killer wears soft-looking sweaters, enjoys making omelettes, and hides in the bathroom when he’s upset and wants to _cry_ are details Oswald can’t rectify right now; where he lives is easier to focus on, to analyze.

Edward pulls the car up to the curb and Oswald is suddenly filled with dread. He refuses to stay in the hospital a long time, but he does need someone to set his leg (and hopefully give him painkillers and _food_ in an environment where everyone who knows and cares about him can at least _find him_ ). Explaining to Fish what’s happened since the attack on the GCPD is what Oswald dreads most. That is _not_ going to be an easy-to-explain set of happenings, and Fish isn’t going to take it well. He sighs loudly, trying to blow off stress and shock from the pain of being moved, which he’s been gritting his teeth through the entire journey.

“Thank you,” he says once more, softly, looking at the floor and his twisted leg. He’s not even out of the car, yet he feels safe in Edward not turning on him at this rate, perhaps because Oswald can’t see _himself_ turning, were he in Edward’s shoes. “The respect you’re showing me goes a long way in helping me come to trust you,” Oswald vocalizes the thought, turning to look Edward in the face. It seemed like something he needed to hear. How Oswald was going to _mentor_ someone like Edward Nygma was beyond him, but he couldn’t turn away from someone this lost. If he was all that stood between Edward and insanity, then Oswald would have to hope his presence was enough to change _something_.

Ed nods slowly, a delayed reaction due to the thoughts in his head. What if he fails in his redemption? It was too unclear a path. Villainy was a never-ending cycle of the same seemingly mindless tasks; it was one of the reasons Ed loved to challenge himself, seeking out the hardest of people to target, or the most priceless possession to steal. What is going to happen when he loses his outlet for his restless energy? Ed throws his head back against the driver seat’s headrest and runs his fingers over his phone. At least now he can contact Oswald should he have any problems.

“I’m sorry for shackling you with my issues, Oswald,” Ed says as he unclips his belt, “you have no reason to help me. I still don’t quite understand why you agreed.” A frown passes over Ed’s face as he considers his words. What if Oswald is just saying this to secure his safe release…not that he was being held prisoner. (He was always free to leave if he’d asked.) Ed doesn’t want this to be a carefully crafted ploy, he has finally admitted to himself how lost he is and he needs the assistance to find direction again. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a sniff, Ed realizes that he has to have faith in Oswald, to trust him with his life. It’s a task that hardly ever came easy to Ed but he has to try. He doesn’t want to disappoint Oswald, not so soon.

Exiting his car, Ed slowly walks up to the hospital’s emergency doors—just inside lies a small collection of wheelchairs. Swiftly removing one from the bunch, the most comfortable-looking one, Ed begins to guide it back to Oswald. _At least the path was flat_ , he muses as he reaches his car door, feeling thankful Oswald wasn’t going to struggle too much.

Reluctance takes hold of Ed as he stares at Oswald through the window with his hand hovering over the handle. _Trust him, Edward. Believe in him._ Ed sighs and opens the door, taking no time to shift Oswald from one seat the the next. A pained gasp escapes the injured man as he is lowered into the wheelchair.

“I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean…are you okay?” Ed asks as his hands hover over Oswald, shaking slightly before flopping to his sides.

“I’m going to go.” Ed squeezes his eyes shut: he’s hurt Oswald enough for one day. His recklessness was going to drive him away faster than his fumbling words ever could. _Stupid._ Before Ed can make his way back inside his car, he pauses and stares down at Oswald.

“I won’t fail you, I will prove to you that I can be good…or at least better.”

Oswald nods, just as stoic as ever and places his hands on the wheels to begin rolling himself inside.

Ed swipes a stray tear from his cheek as he waits until Oswald enters the hospital before he makes his leave. He needs to go home and call Kristen; she should know what’s going on before any more changes occur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU has completely captured us and we're really excited to see where it takes us next, as this chapter went to unexpected but exciting places. Next chapter we finally have Fish out on stage, along with some other familiar faces! Thanks so much for reading; we hope the beginning of the hiatus is going well for you all.


	2. Foolish Boy…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald finally gets medical attention, Fish finally finds her boy, and Zsasz finally…Zsasz is just out here, honestly. (He's having fun, let him live!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not only do we get some great reunions in this chapter, as Oswald returns to the regular world, but Fish makes her debut and we couldn't be more impressed with her. She's incredible and any words written here won't do her justice; thankfully, her time "on screen" here _does_ ❤ 
> 
> Happy reading and please enjoy!

The entrance to the hospital is quiet, and Oswald wheels himself towards the doors, swallowing down the leftover cocktail of emotions that still buzz through his veins. Something catches him, making him turn his head back—a magnetic, instinctual kind of pull, and he watches the back of Edward’s car roll away, the brake lights glowing brighter as Edward slows down and pulls the car into a turn. Oswald keeps watching, his fingers sliding over the metal grips, moving himself forward a few inches without conscious thought. He pulls his head back straight ahead when he hears the electronic doors slide over, and makes the final push forward into the ER lobby.

A few heads pop up over the top of the desk to look at him as he enters. Does he look that bad? He has no way to know.

“Hello. My name is Oswald Cobblepot,” he announces loudly, still a-way-aways from the check-in center at the desk. “I was involved in the attack on the GCPD headquarters and I need medical assistance.” The receptionists all gape at him. “And something to eat.” No one reacts. A few of the people in the lobby look up at him from their magazines and phones.

“It’s not a joke,” Oswald explains, stopping the wheelchair in front of a cut-away in the desk that is at the same height as he is now. “I haven’t eaten in days, and I feel faint.” There’s a granola bar to the side of one of the desk computers and Oswald gestures towards it. The receptionist closest to him looks back and forth a few times before deciding to slide the snack towards Oswald, quickly, as if somehow no one will notice.

“Thank you,” Oswald mouths, tearing into the package. He has his phone cradled against his shoulder, pinned there by his face. He counts the rings as he waits to see if anyone will answer. Straight to voicemail. “I’m at Gotham General Hospital,” he says; everything else feels too complex to explain right now. “I’ll tell them to let you in. I’m sorry about…I’m sorry if I made you worry. I was concerned, as well.” He tears up a little, and snaps the phone shut instead of trying to say more with such limited space.

The granola bar is disgusting, his sleeve is stiff with dried blood, and Oswald still has no answers for why life has gone so wild in a matter of days. He looks to his legs, to the bright fluorescent lights in the ceiling, and then to the triage nurse who calls his name, gesturing for him with a clipboard. Oswald nods and enters the evaluation room, taking another bite of the snack bar along the way.

~~~

Fish stands tall with her chin lifted as she watches the janitors and officers tidy up the last of the mess scattered about. The results of the recent attack left the GCPD in disarray yet again. Fish was furious that Gordon and Bullock had the balls to storm into _her_ place, shoot at _her_ officers and other people under her care. Thankfully all were alive and accounted for, all except Oswald, and that’s a thought that leaves her constantly on edge.

“Krill,” Fish shouts across the room, easily grabbing the man’s attention. His head snaps up and he scurries over to her side. If she was in a calmer state of mind, Fish might have appreciated the instant response but as it was, she knows she won’t be able to calm until Oswald is found.

“Where’s Zsasz?” she asks in a clipped tone.

“I, ah, I don’t know,” the man stammers as he throws his head over his shoulders, looking for the bald detective. Fish rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers in Krill’s face.

“I’d suggest you _find_ him, or else you’ll be demoted to flagger for the next month and we both know how much you detested it the last time.”

Her threat results in widened eyes as the man balks and runs off without another word to begin scurrying around the GCPD like a rodent. From her platform Fish watches him; she watches them all work to restore their workplace to its once pristine condition. Her fingers tap the doorknob to her office as her agitation brews—inside she can hear both her personal and work phone’s ringing simultaneously; however, with a huff, she ignores them. Numerous reporters and civilians have been calling since the attack began and after three days of answering their questions and listening to their worries, Fish has had enough. They can wait. She has more prominent things to see to.

“Do you have to be so mean to Abner? He’s trying his best.”

Whirling around, Fish shoots out a hand and grabs Victor by the scruff of his shirt, dragging him forward a few inches. The man laughs as he throws his hands up, and his mirth only grows when Fish releases him with a shove.

“Where have you been? I expected an update hours ago,” she hisses as she tosses open her office door, ushering Victor inside before slamming it closed behind them.

“Aw, boss, I didn’t know you cared so much about me.”

Resisting a roll of her eyes, Fish settles for smacking him up the back of his head.

“This isn’t the time for jokes and quips, Zsasz. Has your team found anything?” Her question brings about a more serious air and the jovial man stills as his face falls. Fish knows the answer before the detective can even make moves to speak.

“Not yet. We’ve looked high and low and there’s been no sight of him. The snitches have turned up nothing either, every single one of them insist that Gordon and Bullock left here empty-handed. Wherever Oswald is, he’s not with them.”

Almost four days of searching has turned up nothing. Every hour that passes leaves Fish more unsettled. She was in charge of that boy and his wellbeing, she took it upon herself a long time ago and should something happen, she’d never forgive herself. Oswald placed his trust in her and she had let him down, she failed to keep him safe.

“And you’ve checked the hospitals?” Fish utters into her palm as she runs a hand over her face, feeling her exhaustion catch up with her.

“Every single hospital and medical facility, legal or otherwise. He hasn’t been sighted.”

Fish sighs and strolls around to her chair, flopping down into it as she opens Oswald’s file for the sixth time that day. She has memorized every scrap of information in there, after all she was the one that wrote it, and was the only one that had access to it. Snatching up her phone, Fish flips it open ready to try Oswald’s number again only to find a voicemail waiting for her. _Oswald!_ Without hesitation she plays the darned thing, and when she hears Oswald’s voice she takes her first un-constricted breath in days. He’s alright…no wait, he’s in the hospital.

“I thought you said you checked the hospitals,” Fish snaps at Victor as she gathers her badge and gun, sliding them into place on her hip.

“I did. Twi—Oswald’s in the hospital?”

Fish nods as she snatches up her keys and heads for the door. She can’t get the sound of Oswald’s pained voice out of her head. He may be alive, but he isn’t in a good state and that in itself is worrisome, given his history and the recent attack.

“Fish, wait for me,” Victor calls out from behind her.

Turning on her heel, Fish extends a finger and settles it on the detective’s sternum. “You are to stay here, do I make myself clear.” Victor frowns but nods nonetheless. “I will see to Oswald and update you if and when I feel the need, for now you are in charge of the department until my return.”

Fish holds his stare for a moment longer before dropping her hand. Victor may be prone to selective hearing but even he wouldn’t dare disobey such a direct order. “Oh, and one last thing,” Fish drawls as a smirk tilts the corners of her lips, “do be sure to find Krill and tell him he can stop his manhunt. He’s likely still scurrying around here somewhere looking for you.”

Without another word, Fish exits the GCPD and climbs into her car, flicking on the sirens seconds after she ignites the engine before speeding her way through the streets. She reaches the hospital in record time and swiftly makes her way inside, demanding Oswald’s room number from the receptionists. Twenty-six. Twenty-six. She repeats the number in her head as she strolls down the corridors with her heels clicking beneath her.

Finally she comes across the room she has been searching for and without a moment’s hesitation, she throws the door open, storms inside and wraps her arm around the injured man. Relief washes over her as Oswald’s arms tighten. His broken apologies reach her ears, prompting Fish to draw back, unable to handle such a broken sound from one of the very few people she cares about. It had been several years since Fish last saw Oswald cry. Worry laces her heart as she sits on the edge of his bed and reaches out a hand to wipe away stray tears from Oswald’s cheeks.

“You’re safe and you’re alive, that is all that matters.” She picks up Oswald’s hands and cradles them in her own, taking note of the dried blood on his sleeve and in the beds of his nails. Her brows pinch as she lifts her eyes to meet Oswald’s own. “I need you to tell me _exactly_ where you have been and what you have been doing.” The robe is not Oswald’s and if her hunch is correct then the blood doesn’t belong to him either.

The rush of safety and relief Oswald feels to see Fish again—that she’s alive, and well, that she’s _here_ , too—is too profound to even give him an option in whether or not he wants to stop crying. He pulls her into another hug, gripping tightly, his chin on her shoulder. Losing his mother made Oswald treasure the almost maternal aspect of his bond with Fish even more, and he swallows down the thick shudder of raw emotion of now knowing he _hasn’t_ lost Fish, trying to compose himself as best he can.

Sobbing again, Oswald pushes his head against hers and rocks them both with the force of his clinging embrace. Fish pulls back after a few sways and wipes at his face again with careful brushes, her own eyes misty-looking.

He can’t possibly tell her what’s happened since the attack, but he has no idea what to tell her instead. It’s hard to lie to her when he’s looking her straight in the eyes.

“I…my leg is broken. There’s something wrong with my other one, too, some stress damage. The doctors said they have to do more scans first, but that it should be fine once it starts to heal. My broken leg, however…” he bites back the sob he wants to let loose. It’s not that he can’t handle the change, it’s that—

“If I’m lucky, I can walk on it, they think. There’s one additional factor, which is that…I…” Oswald falters, and Fish pulls her sleeve up to dab at his face again. “I’ll need a cane, and even then, it _will_ get worse with time.”

This is the part that kills Oswald, has since Edward told him the extent of his injuries. “I saved someone,” Oswald smiles, despite pursing his lips and scrunching his brow. “A criminal, which doesn’t truthfully matter, and therefore I don’t regret it. I might not be police but…I want to serve and protect, too, and that includes everyone who isn’t a threat. And she wasn’t. If…if I can’t…” Oswald drops his arms into his lap and looks down at them. He can’t stand to meet Fish’s eyes right now; he hates giving in to being weak, to _feeling_ weak. “If I can’t work for you anymore, because I’m disabled now, because I can’t…” he has no idea how to finish the sentence. Fish had only sent him back into the building because there was no one else; it was never Oswald’s job to be a hero, but even then….

He lifts his head proudly, sniffing back his sadness. “If you need to employ someone else who can keep up with the physical demands of the job, I understand. I’m likely not much good to you now that I’m like this.” _It’s not like I was worth much before, either,_ he criticizes himself, thinking back on the fog of depression he’s been in, all the times he wasn’t fast enough at helping Fish solve a case, how flippant and cruel he’d been when she first gave him a job sweeping the floors, before he was promoted to racing down them, file folders in hand, rushing to her side with anything she called him for. He’s always hoped to achieve more in life than serving others, but working for Fish had been more than that to him. It had been a chance to learn from her, to grow, and to think he would lose it all now because of his own poor luck….

Oswald smiled again and nodded, determined to handle this with some modicum of grace.

“Foolish boy,” Fish utters as she returns Oswald’s small smile. It pains her to see him cry. Oswald, although a firecracker at times, was often accustomed to keeping that blank mask in check. A mask she is all too familiar with, as it is the wall she locks her past behind so she can better prepare her future. Fish hasn’t seen Oswald this broken since she first began dissuading him away from his life of crime; it was an endless struggle which _eventually_ turned fruitful. To save another, _any_ other from that dark path, fills Fish with a sense of pride and hope. Lifting her hand, Fish grabs at Oswald’s chin, firmly but not painfully, as she shifts closer. “Oswald, a broken leg will not diminish your value. You are still useful and are keeping your place at the GCPD.”

Concern flashes through the green hues of Oswald’s eyes, prompting her to continue. He will understand sooner or later, once he snaps out of this feeling of utter worthlessness. Fish won’t let him curl in on himself, not when she is here to support him. “If it is a cane you need, I will get you one. If you need time to process this, you have it. You are worth more than your leg, so don’t let it hold you back.” Fish releases her grasp in favor of dropping her hand to Oswald’s chest, resting it over his beating heart. The feeling of it thumping away beneath her hand fills her with another level of relief.

Days (too many days) went by, had left Fish to stew with worry over whether Oswald was alive or dead, or if he was simply missing. Although the circumstances were not the best, Oswald is now in a place that would provide him with help. He would get better. The only thing he needs to do is rest and let his worries fall away, for most of them were unfounded. Fish promised him many years ago that she would be there to support him, to lift him up when he needed it most. He has her strength, but he needs to find his own again, too. 

“You are strong, Oswald. Strong enough to overcome your past and more than strong enough to battle your way through this. You are a hero and I couldn’t be prouder.” A sincere smile passes over Fish’s face as she thinks over how far Oswald has come. The man she first met would have scoffed at performing such a deed for selfless reasons.

Rising to her feet after giving Oswald a pat to his hand, Fish walks around to the rear of the bed and picks up his file, flicking through the information scrawled into it. Oswald is right, the extent of damage is significant, to say the least. Guilt washes over her as she looks over to the man who has become like a son to her. It’s her fault he is injured; if she didn’t give the orders to return back inside and assist, Oswald would likely be in his file room, not sitting in some god-forsaken hospital bed, with tears running down his cheeks. With pinched brows, Fish shifts her eyes back to the clipboard, only to find a detail that causes her scowl to deepen. Oswald only checked in today. It has been three days since the attack and only _now_ he is seeking help.

“Oswald, don’t think I didn’t see you skirt around the latter half of my question. You may have explained what happened to you, but, my boy, you haven’t touched on where you’ve been. An injury so severe should have been seen to immediately, which begs the question: where _have_ you been?” Fish raises a brow as she tilts her head with several thoughts playing on her mind, the two most prominent ones she questions first: did Oswald slip, or _was_ he kidnapped and only just now escaped?

Oswald looks away from Fish, focusing on the glow of light from the bedside table lamp spilling on the floor. It’s mostly dark in the room otherwise. If only he’d gotten a window…

“We got pinned—the woman I saved and I. Something heavy crushed us…a beam, I think. She was able to get out, but I was trapped, unable to move my legs. In fact, she tried to pull me out; she’d dug her heels in and tugged, but it was unsuccessful. Her determination was impressive but she was a small woman. Well, not that small. A little taller than you,” he says with a smile, trying to lighten the mood somehow from how heavy his conversation and reunion with Fish has gone so far. If anyone else made a quip to Fish about her height, they would become a large blood splatter on the ground—metaphorically speaking. He’s not even really teasing her, and the pointed look Fish gives him, still holding a page of his file in her hand, makes his resolve in trying to out-step this conversation wobble. He should know better than to try to stand up to Fish.

“I think I lost consciousness…may have gone into shock. I…” Fish is _glaring_ at him at this point. Oswald is too scared to even start to guess what thoughts might be going through her head. “I was disappointed, actually. I thought maybe I’d gotten involved in a larger plot. That there was more to Gordon and Bullock attacking the GCPD, more to me getting involved in—in what I did that day. Sadly, I was completely mistaken. You…you know what poor luck I have?” Fish nods once, coming to stand next to him again, her heels pointedly clicking with her slow, deliberate steps. _Why do you have to try to always intimidate me, still?_ Oswald whines to himself. It’s uncomfortable! And effective.

“Fish…I…I will _never_ betray you, you know that, surely you _know_ that. Not after all you’ve done for me. Taught me. Shown me. You…you know I would never deliberately get caught up in a dark plot, ever again. Right?” He almost squeaks the last word, truly concerned now about what she must think of him. Nothing he has to confess to her next paints him in a good light, despite the fact that he chose for none of it to happen to him. He smiles, looking to the other side of the room, the closet where they put his tattered clothes, and the closed bathroom door. It doesn’t look the same at all, but it reminds him of his morning all too vividly. “Remember when I lost my favorite scarf the other day? That red one I got on sale a few years ago.” Oswald smiles more. “I always wear it with my black peacoat. You said you thought it was too simple for my tastes, but I loved it.” He swallows and looks back at Fish. “I didn’t tell you why I came back to work without it. I didn’t think it was important.”

The eeriness of how _still_ Fish is while he speaks only serves to make Oswald more nervous. Crossing his arms, Oswald exhales slowly, leaving his jaw open as he tries to think of how to word this.

“I should stop doing nice things. They only serve to ruin my life. Perhaps this is why my mother was the way she was, as opposed to me. I…I gave my scarf to the…the Chess Killer? Or whatever it is the papers call him. I didn’t recognize him and he…I—there was—he started stalking me? He’s the one who freed me from the rubble. He took me back to his apartment to nurse be back to health himself, because he…” Oswald is truly struggling to explain this now and Fish is staring at him, slack-jawed as well.

“He’s fascinated with me because he finds me attractive and admirable,” Oswald mumbles, dropping his chin to his chest. Blinking away the confusion of memories that talking about Edward brings back into his mind, Oswald lifts his head again. “He’s undeniably delusional and _very_ creepy but oddly he had no interest in harming me. He brought me here upon my request. I was only awake for about an hour and a half of the time I spent there, so I couldn’t get away sooner.”

Fish snaps her jaw shut as she turns away from Oswald to pace about the room. A restlessness fills her as Oswald’s tale begins to map the events in her mind. This was so much more extreme than she imagined. Oswald slipping back into the darkness she could easily handle, but a villain, the _Riddler_ having a fixation with him? That was something out of her control. The Riddler was someone she had yet to be able to capture; his evasion tactics were impressive in the most frustrating sense, but now he has eyes on Oswald and that is something Fish will _not_ stand for.

“So, let me get this straight, in the past few days since the attack on the GCPD, you’ve been cozied up with the Riddler?” Oswald’s eyes widen in shock (or surprise, Fish doesn’t know, and she doesn’t take the time to think on it). Lifting a hand to cut off Oswald’s quickly forming retort, she continues. “And you’re telling me he has been _stalking_ you? That he _kidnapped_ you and _kept_ you because he _admires_ you?” Oswald nods and worries his hands together as Fish huffs; her heels continue to strike the hard floors beneath her, each step sounding like the crack of a whip. Her restlessness shifts into frustration—what has Oswald got himself into? He has spent years working his way out of the darkness, closing that door behind him and in strolls this erratic _maniac_ ready to ruin all of Oswald’s hard work. Who knows what the Riddler has said to him, what ideas he’s implanted as a means of manipulation?

If there was one thing Fish knows, it is that people deserve a chance at redemption, but when they mess with someone she cares about, then that notion flies out the window. Oswald isn’t ready to mentor someone, and certainly not someone as unstable as the Riddler.

“I’m going to kill him,” she hisses through clenched teeth, surprising herself with her own ferocity. Fish knows with every fiber of her being that she won’t; she would rather save than kill, protect, rather than harm, but this green _freak_ is in no way, shape, or form in for a good time whenever they happen to cross paths. He will be shipped off and locked up in Arkham faster than the ink on his rap sheet can dry.

“Almost three days he kept you, Oswald—three days you laid unconscious and _drugged_ …and boy, don’t tell me you weren’t! I’ve seen the results of your blood work.” Fish holds Oswald’s stare as she takes up her place on the bed. He looks frightened at her outburst; he’s the image of a small child getting reprimanded by his mother. Being a parent is something Fish has never held interest in. She has a city to protect and children would only hinder her in that task, but as she looks across at the injured man lying beside her, Fish feels that maternal instinct brew. There is no denying Oswald has become like a son to her and Fish knows without a doubt that she would do anything to protect him.

“Whatever this attraction he has with you, it’s dangerous— _he’s_ dangerous, Oswald. The Riddler is not someone to get mixed up with. If you don’t believe me, check his file, I can have someone bring it over…I know Zsasz is probably on the verge of leaving the GCPD right now, despite my orders, he’d be more than happy to have an _actual_ excuse to come visit you.” Fish smiles and shakes her head. Victor is a menace, and she doesn’t know how she has managed to work with him for so many years and stay sane, but he has been nothing but kind. He is a great but reckless detective and a good friend to Oswald. That is enough in her books.

Reaching out a hand to cup Oswald’s cheek yet again, Fish strokes her thumb back and forth slowly as she feels her frustration beginning to wane. “I know you’d never get mixed up in this on purpose; since you began your journey you have been nothing but dedicated to your redemption. I trust you not to betray me, or _yourself_ , but there is one thing I need you to do for me.” She pauses, giving Oswald enough time to heed the severity of her words, before continuing. “Tell me where to find the Riddler so I can bring him in and keep you safe.”

“No,” Oswald replies, shocking himself with the choice. “I’m sorry, Fish, I’m not…we need to talk about this first. Trust me, I thought about having him locked away, too. I was ready to attack him, if I had to. I’d never been more terrified for my life before then when I realized what he could be capable of, but…”

Digging the nails of his one hand into his palm, he looks at the bloodstain on Edward’s robe. “He kept insisting he only wanted to help me, and I was so sure it was some kind of plot, to sway me and mentally affect me, but it wasn’t working. It didn’t work at all. In fact, it was simple for me to challenge him, and even in the most disturbing moments of seeing the symptoms of his mental damage, I was able to outmaneuver him, with _ease_. Even I feared what he could be capable of, to…to damage _me_ , but then…”

The urge to throw himself back into Fish’s arms is strong and Oswald staves off the childlike longing to hide in her arms.

“He tried to kill himself right before I got him to let me go. You…you have no idea how…how…” Oswald’s lips shake again and he hates himself for bawling as much as he has today. “It was my fault,” he chokes out. “I had him held at knifepoint—long story—and he…he wanted me to do it. Not goading or begging or anything of the sort—even that I would’ve seen as manipulation. No, he simply…pushed.” The point is accentuated by Oswald lifting his wrist, putting the blood-stained sleeve on display.

“I’ve never seen something that broke me more than when I saw in his eyes when he did that,” Oswald confesses, and he realizes he’s visibly shaking now. “What he did to me was wrong; no one knows that more than me, but to kill him, or to lock him away, when he only…he kept asking for my help. He was trying to be so nice, with barely any understanding of how to even relate to another human and I…if I’d kill him, Fish, I couldn’t live with myself. I’d be nothing more than…than a _monster_ , to take someone broken already and further crush them into pieces. To snuff them out when they only wanted to be saved.”

He drops his head into his hands and digs at his scalp. “Is this what it feels like to try to save people? Is this what it was like with me? Was it this painful, this consuming? I feel guilt when I’m the one who has been wronged. I don’t understand!”

Fish purses her lips and furrows her brows as she watches Oswald cry into his palms. She can’t believe her ears: the Riddler is seeking redemption; he _wants_ to be saved. The very notion sounds preposterous. Tapping her heels together, Fish wonders just how perceptive Oswald was being…so the man pushed himself into a blade? People had done far worse in the name of manipulation and greed. The drugs, the results of his injury, and kidnapping could have very well forced Oswald to see the situation in an entirely different light. There was truly no telling what it is the Riddler wants, or is aiming to get out of this.

Focusing her eyes on the man beside her, Fish’s heart aches. She can’t stand the sight of him sounding so broken and alone, suffering with the overwhelming magnitude of the burden he has taken on. _Foolish boy._

As she begins to cards her fingers through Oswald’s dark locks, soothing his rising emotions, Fish recalls the encounters she first had with him. There was so much anger in Oswald back then, she muses with a small huff and a fond smile. However, underneath that, Fish had taken notice of the guilt and confusion lying in his eyes. Eventually that turned into remorse, as Oswald set his life on track. If this is where the Riddler is, then receiving help would be the best thing for him, but that didn’t mean Fish trusts him to be anywhere near Oswald.

“Look at me,” Fish says as she pulls Oswald’s hands away from his face and taps a finger on his forehead. “This is important, so I need you to pay attention. All these worries and concerns you have are normal. I experienced them repeatedly when I was dealing you. I _still_ feel them from time to time. Saving someone is never easy, it’s infinitely more difficult than saving yourself. You become responsible for another person, Oswald. Responsible for their actions, their behaviour, for _them._ It is not a task to be taken on lightly. You’ll be connected with him forever.”

Fish wishes she could talk Oswald out of it, to pull him away from this man that has, time and time again, only ever worked to further corrupt the city she’s devoted herself to protecting, but Oswald seems set on this path. He is scared and concerned, but that determination is there—the same determination that shone through when he accepted a position at the GCPD.

“You’re _clearly_ not backing down from this, are you?” Fish smiles and Oswald shakes his head with a broken laugh.

Pulling out her phone Fish dials Zsasz’s number. It barely takes two rings before the line is connected and Zsasz’s voice sounds through the receiver. _”Missing me already, ar_ — _”_

“Shut up, Victor. I want you to turn around, go back to the GCPD and bring me the Riddler’s file…and the Chess Killer’s one, too,” she adds as an afterthought. Oswald’s filing system is completely bonkers, but the man somehow manages to keep track of it all. If Victor can find anything in there, well, then it will be a blessing. If he can’t, and ends up struggling for an hour, Fish will laugh in his face and tease him mercilessly for it.

“And before you speak again: yes, I know you are already on your way; no, I did not plant a tracking implant on you the last time you passed out; yes, I am sure; and no, I do not _now_ , nor _ever_ , want to see your body. Does that about cover it?”

Victor’s boisterous laugh sounds in Fish’s ear. _“Yeah, that about covers it, boss. See you soon.”_

Fish doesn’t bother with goodbyes; she snaps her phone shut and shoves it back into her pocket before turning her attention to Oswald. “I don’t know _how_ you manage to stay friends with him, he’s completely ridiculous. Thankfully, he is useful, otherwise he would have been off the force a long time ago.” Both Fish and Oswald share a small bout of laughter and for a second things feel almost normal, until Fish overhears a few nurses walk down the hall, reminding her of where they sit. Her face falls as she picks up Oswald’s hands, stroking her thumbs over his knuckles.

“Zsasz is going to bring you the files. You need to know what you are dealing with before you make any more moves. There is no going into this blind, Oswald. You are smart and clever—use that to your advantage.”

“Victor isn’t so bad; he provides comedy at no extra charge, for which we should all be grateful,” Oswald laughs. It feels good to be smiling again, with Fish wiping away the last of his tears. If he doesn’t cry again for a year, it will be too short. 

“You know what’s truly ironical _and_ humorous? I couldn’t remember his chosen name the entire time I was there. _The Riddler._ Odd choice. Out of costume, he doesn’t even tell riddles!”

Fish rolls her eyes, and Oswald doesn’t blame her. They both know how deadly Edward’s behavior is that the joke can’t truly be funny.

“I fear I already _am_ connected to him. Not the way he wishes—but it’s hard to turn down a plea for help when I know all too well what it was like to be in his shoes.” Oswald rubs the back of Fish’s hands, as she rubs his.

“Thank you for bringing the files. Thank you…thank you for everything.” He pulls her hands into his chest and hugs them, closing his eyes, lest he burst into tears again. The fact that she not only doesn’t care about his injury, but is willing to help him prepare for dealing with the Riddler…as if Fish hasn’t done enough for him all this time….

“I need to take precautions with all of this. Firstly, I think I should always carry a tracking device on my person. And…if I can obtain the permit, a gun. I’ll tell you when he contacts me, so you never have to wonder if I’ve vanished again. There have to be safe ways to do this, for me to protect myself, just as there has to be a fate better for him than…” _Than likely killing himself in a cell, all alone in Arkham, where no one would’ve helped him, anyway._ ”I know you and Zsasz will protect me, but I’m not so helpless, myself. I _did_ get myself out of there single-handily, half-drugged, unable to walk, _and_ hungry.” He laughs again; Fish knows how voracious his hunger can be. “After Zsasz comes, I’ll read through the files, and maybe I can finally sleep. I’m going to get them to discharge me as soon as possible. After all, thanks to you, I have a job to return to.” _And now an extra one on the side,_ he considers, somberly.

“There’s my smart boy, already taking charge,” Fish says with a smile, feeling proud of Oswald and his plan. When he’s had time to think of one, she doesn’t know. He is constantly surprising her and ready for action, despite being a file clerk. Some things never change. 

“I’ll make sure you get your gun, but like any of my officers, should you discharge it, you’ll need to write a report. I trust you and I trust you to use it wisely, but you are not exempt from this rule. Understand?” Oswald doesn’t hesitate to nod his acceptance, not that Fish ever doubted him. It is high time Oswald has the tools to protect himself, especially if he is going to be dealing with the Riddler on a daily basis.

As Fish flicks her eyes over to the doorway, she wonders if she can ask Victor to observe their first few encounters, but with a shake of her head and a small smile she decides otherwise. Victor would _only_ end up making matters worse. There is only so long anyone can deal with him before the thought of shooting him plays on their mind.

“Your medical bills, any medication you need, and your cane will all be paid for by me. That is _not_ up for negotiation, Oswald,” Fish says, cutting off whatever argument Oswald was going to make with a press of her fingers to his lips. “You were injured under my care, the _least_ I can do is make sure you are well taken care of.”

Rising to her feet, Fish fills a glass with water and hands it over to Oswald with a raised brow that speaks only one word. _Drink._ With a roll of his eyes, Oswald complies; he has become well accustomed to her silent orders and knows that arguing would be more effort than it is worth.

“Speaking of well taken care of, do send Victor away should he bother you. I know you are eager to get out of here and get back to work, but rest is on order, too. I mean it, Oswald,” Fish says with a finger raised before her, “you will take at _least_ a few days off work and when you are ready for discharge, or have foolishly checked yourself out, you will call me to come collect you.”

“Now,” Fish claps before sitting back down beside Oswald, wrapping her arms around him. “Although I hate to be leaving so soon, I have to settle your hospital bills and I would rather avoid Zsasz for as long as I can. He’s your problem now.” Fish laughs and presses a kiss to the top of Oswald’s head. “Call me if you need anything.”

Smiling at being kissed on the forehead, Oswald rubs Fish’s back, patting it once as they pull apart.

“Maybe he won’t show, since you find him so unreliable, despite him never failing you, and I can sleep,” Oswald snarks, as Fish get up and heads out. He gives a small wave that she returns, hanging onto the doorframe, before she truly leaves.

Tipping his head back, Oswald wonders if he might be able to nap while he waits for Zsasz to show up. Surely he can close his eyes for a moment and—

Oswald hears Fish yelling in the hallway: one loud shout of “ _YOU!_ ” and the quick rustle of footsteps and the squeak of leather approaching his door.

“Victor…” Oswald thrusts his hand out. “My files, please?”

Zsasz strolls into the room and presents a large stack of them to Oswald with a smooth flick of his wrist.

“You better not have messed up my system when you got these…” Oswald grouses, shimmying into a more upright position so he can read. “Why did you bring me this? Dr. Fox is out of the scene. And Pennyworth…did you just grab random files?” Riffling through the mess, Oswald pulls out the ones that are about Edward—time to merge the Chess Killer and the Riddler into one folder, clearly. There’s even some clippings about a student at Gotham University named Nygma with some old reports; Oswald doesn’t remember filing these, which means they’re from before his time, and in storage. At one point, Edward was seeking the GCPD’s help, and not their ruin. These files are going to require careful study.

“I didn’t worry about you at all, you know.” Oswald sighs, moving the pile of unnecessary folders off his lap and onto the tray table nearby, to allow his legs less pressure. “ _Fish_ I worried about; I feared she was dead. Hell, I thought I was next. But you? I knew you were fine. You’re reliable like that.” Oswald looks Zsasz in the face for the first time since he’s come and sat down. “It’s comforting to not have to fret over you.”

“When has anyone ever needed to worry about me?” Zsasz says with a smile and a wink. “I’m indestructible—that much should be obvious by now.” With a loud laugh, Zsasz leans back onto Oswald’s legs, only to find himself jumping up when a pained look passes over Oswald’s features. “Shit, I’m sorry. Guess you haven’t been so lucky lately.”

The three days Oswald was missing were quite stressful for Zsasz, mostly due to Fish’s constant harping. Anything he said, any joke or quip, was brushed away without notice until earlier today. Fish can be quite frightening when she is in a bad mood; thankfully, hearing from Oswald restored her to her normal, sufferable self. “So, what’s the deal, Oz? Fish never updated me in the corridor. All she did was shout, shove and storm away—however, not before hissing at me to _be good._ The woman continues to treat me like a toddler, despite being her partner for almost ten years.”

Dropping back down on the mattress, Zsasz is mindful not to touch Oswald’s legs again. “I want you to know that everyone at the GCPD is glad you are alive. We can’t have our file clerk going missing for long…there’s no one in the city that will be able to make sense of your system.” With a smirk, Zsasz reaches out and claps a hand down on Oswald’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before releasing, only so he could insinuate himself against the headboard beside his friend. Bumping his shoulder on Oswald’s, Zsasz lifts a hand and messes his hair, despite the sour look on his face. “So, are you going to let me know why you are in the hospital, the same hospital I checked several times mind you… _and_ why it was so important that I grab these files?”

“The same reason it’s important I always have my files,” Oswald tells him in clipped tones. “I’m researching something for Fish,” he lies, in part. It’s not that he wants to lie to his best friend, it’s that telling Fish had already been uncomfortable enough. “I demanded she let me get back to work, so she assigned me a case to research. I’m bored in here.” Oswald lets his head fall onto Zsasz’s shoulder with a thump; if he’s going to fake being alert, he’s going to have to _rest_ while he does it.

_Sorry, Victor. I know you would kill for me in an instant, without explanation; if it comes to that, I’ll call on you, but until then, I need to keep this a secret._

After a few moments of flipping through files, trying to shield what he’s reading from Zsasz’s prying eyes, Oswald tries chatting with him, pretending it’s a normal conversation and not the day Oswald returned from the presumed-dead. He’s _not_ going to cry again. “I’m going to start carrying when I get out of here,” Oswald tells him. “It’s safest after…after the attack. Fish and I discussed it.” Sighing heavily, Zsasz drops his head against the top of Oswald’s. _He knows I’m lying to him. Dammit._

“I got _kidnapped_ , alright? Happy now? Now you know where I’ve been. Before you start, credit is due _me_ , since I secured my own freedom. I hatched a genius plan involving a breakfast of an _omelette_ to escape; you would have been so impressed you’d have been rendered breathless were you to witness it. However, since you _are_ a toddler—and yes, you are one; perhaps I’ve only known you half as long as Fish, but even I know that, so, I’m censoring the rest of the story.” Rubbing at the skin just above his cast with the heel of his palm, through the rough blanket, Oswald considers what else he should tell Zsasz. “I’m not injured in any way from that. No, the grand, ornate ceiling of the GCPD gallery did this to me, along with the idiot _rerun duo_.” Oswald remembers where he got that nickname _after_ he’s said it and he worries the back row of his teeth with his tongue instead of expounding more.

“What do you think of the Riddler?” he asks as flatly as possible, avoiding Zsasz’s face again, watching him clench and unclench his leather gloved hands instead.

Zsasz frowns at Oswald’s question. He has come across the Riddler a few times but has never managed to spot more than a mere glimpse of him in person. The guy had a knack for running away, causing chaos Zsasz in good conscience couldn’t ignore. “Why are you asking, Oswald? Did he manage to catch your eye? I didn’t think you were into bad boys.” Zsasz smirks, even though Oswald fails to answer his retort. Usually this behavior doesn’t discourage him in the slightest, but Oswald is in the hospital and had been kidnapped, so Zsasz takes pity on him. “ _Relax,_ I’m only teasing,” he says with a laugh as he throws an arm over Oswald’s shoulders and ruffles his hair again. “Everyone knows you wouldn’t be interested in a guy like that.” “Anyway, back to your question: what do I think of the Riddler? Well, he’s clever.”

Oswald lifts his head and peers up at Zsasz with a disgusted look on his face, pinched brows and a scrunched nose, prompting Zsasz to follow up with a simple remark of “Hey, you gotta give credit when it’s due!” in a rushed tone. “I mean…and I’m not complementing the guy, but he’s managed to evade _both_ Fish and I for several years, that’s quite a feat for a lower level crook.” It’s quite a feat for anyone. There are only a few people in the city that repeatedly slip between Zsasz’s fingers, and most of them are involved in gang activity. The Riddler is nowhere near gang material, Zsasz muses with a chuckle, and drops his head to rest on Oswald’s once more. “Yes, he is a riddle-loving, havoc-causing murderer, but, Oswald, when compared to the big crooks, the Riddler is but a child. We’ll catch him sooner or later.”

Zsasz shifts his eyes to the stack of folders beside Oswald and the file in his hands. “Is Fish concerned he is going to make a reappearance? Is that why she has you researching him?” For the second time since Zsasz has been in his friend’s presence, he feels Oswald tense. This isn’t normal behavior for him, leaving Zsasz to wonder _exactly_ what it is that happened when he was kidnapped. Oswald is being evasive, hiding files he has already forgotten Zsasz was ordered to grab, as well as outright deflecting some of his questions. Zsasz might not be as good as Fish at reading people but there is a reason he is a detective and that reason doesn’t solely lie in his unrivalled talent with a gun. “Listen,” Zsasz whispers as he tightens his arm over Oswald, “I _know_ there are things you aren’t telling me, and as your friend I won’t pry, but know that if you need me, I am always here for you to talk to. Don’t go thinking you are alone.”

Oswald sighs heavily as he sinks into Zsasz’s embrace. “I know I’m not,” he responds, too tired to truly sound flippant. _I feel like I am, despite you and Fish both having my back_ , Oswald admits to himself. _I always feel alone._

“Hopefully this _riddle idiot_ gives up and quits while he’s ahead,” Oswald speaks with his chin pointed down, trying to evade Zsasz’s almost spot-on questions. Zsasz is going to figure this out before Oswald would like him to; he can tell already. He has always been more astute than even Oswald first assumed, back when they first met. “Until then, knowledge is power, and you know how much I like to memorize my files in advance.”

Disconnecting himself from under Zsasz’s arm, Oswald runs his fingers through his hair to try to sort it, while Zsasz looks at him with quiet consideration, his eyes exposing the thoughts shifting behind them. Before Oswald figures out what exactly those thoughts _entail_ , and may be forced into discussing them, he should cut his time with Zsasz short for now.

“Thanks for bringing the files,” he says, biting his lip before shifting into a smile. “You have a golden opportunity to tell Fish you did something correctly—I wouldn’t track her down now, but rather save it while she nurses her morning coffee tomorrow. It might delight her enough to treat you kindly for a whole hour!” Zsasz rolls his eyes and smiles at Oswald’s silliness.

“Here—” Oswald reaches across Zsasz’s chest for his phone. “I’ll even text her and let her know. Have a good night, Victor. And…thank you for coming to see me.”

Zsasz gets the message and swings his legs off the bed, pushing on his fisted-up hands to elevate himself up. He heads straight for the door and waves at Oswald without turning back, hand vanishing in front of him when he drops it.

Oswald waves back, unseen, and flips his phone open to make good on his comment to text Fish.

_Zsasz got me the files. Thank you again. Good night._

He’s not much of a texter; truthfully, he doesn’t like the phone at all, but needs must. Fish is used to his to-the-point messages.

Closing the screen, Oswald stares at the graphic on the front screen of an envelope shrinking and vanishing in a rush of motion as his message is sent, the edges of the screen around the crack distorted, as if the colors are melting. Something about it reminds him of the fragility of human connection, how all that is communicated is still lost the moment it’s uttered, left to individual interpretation, reception, even rejection….

Yanking the top screen open again, the broken plastic pops as he forces it open. Gripping the phone tightly in both hands, he slams out another message:

_I don’t know how to clean the stain out, but I will return your robe to you anyway. Thank you for lending it._

Closing the phone quickly, before he can change his mind and try to cancel the message, he shoves the phone in the robe pocket and reaches for the last of the water in the glass Fish had poured for him. _It’s not as if I can outright thank him again for not turning out to be entirely a villain, for sparing me._ Swallowing down the last sips and his frustration with himself for sending that note in the first place, Oswald almost tosses the glass in his attempt to set it down and throws his head into the pillow to sleep, pulling the blankets over his face, welcoming the respite the combination of warmth and darkness offers him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the support you've shown us! Next chapter we'll get to see a certain someone's reaction to that text message, and Red—ahem, _Kristen_ will finally make her long-awaited debut. It should be up soon; we can't silence these muses (and we wouldn't want to!) 
> 
> Let us know what you're looking forward to next and what you're enjoying so far! We love talking to you all ❣


	3. Monsters Stuck in My Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dropping Oswald off at the hospital Ed travels back to his apartment on auto pilot, however with his recent admission still swirling in his mind, adding to his fragile mental state, Ed is forced to reach out to the only person he can for support. Kristen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Is everyone ready to meet Kristen? She is all sorts of amazing. The love we both have for her in insurmountable and her friendship with Ed is truly a blessing.
> 
> Prior warning before you rush off and read the new chapter, Ed has a vivid mental breakdown and Kristen has her own, too. Please check the tags and if you feel like we have missed anything, let us know in the comments so we can update them.
> 
> Happy reading!

Ed drives home from the hospital on autopilot, staring through the traffic as if the roads were clear.

He struggles to work out what he is thinking and feeling. All he knows is that he wants to go back to Oswald, but Oswald sent him away. He wouldn’t even let him stay and help take care of him. Ed’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as he watches pedestrians cross the road, school kids laugh together, couples saunter hand-in-hand, and another man walk fast with his head tucked down. They all know where they are going; they stride forward with purpose. Now that Ed has admitted his internal worries to someone else, however briefly, he can’t help but wallow in the feeling of disconnection. He floats in between two paths, but walks neither.

The lights flick green and Ed winds his way through the streets, back to his apartment building. Parking his car in his designated space, he exits the vehicle and strolls over to the elevator, dragging the heels of his shoes beneath him. _There’s still time to go back_ , Ed muses as he presses the button. Oswald would likely be admitted by now, he’d have a room people could visit. The elevator doors close sealing him inside before Ed could settle on a decision.

Although rising, Ed feels like he is falling—there is nothing up there for him. Oswald is at the hospital and he has been sent home to do what… _wait?_ What is he waiting for, what is he supposed to do now?

With a sigh at the sound of the ding, Ed shuffles his way over to his door. After unlocking it and sliding it open he stands there, eyes flicking over the room, as he chews on his bottom lip. This morning (barely a few hours ago) his apartment held life and now it is still and dead. Even his bed is empty, aside from the omelette that Oswald barely touched. Ed’s shoulders slump; he can’t very well leave it there, so he steps inside, closes the door and moves to retrieve the plate, but as he reaches the bedside, his foot kicks the knife on the floor.

Ed freezes as he stares at it. His hands shake before one lifts to the wound on his neck, hidden beneath the bandage and the scarf. He can still feel it stinging every time he takes a breath. Oswald may have attacked him but Ed holds no anger at his actions. It was his fault Oswald lashed out like that. Too much, too fast. People have told him this before, yet Ed fails to listen.

Quickly picking up the plate and knife, Ed ignores how bright his blood on the knife is in favor for rinsing every trace of it down the sink. Next, the omelette is scraped into the bin. Ed generally doesn’t like wasting food but he isn’t up for eating it. His stomach feels too unsettled and it wasn’t his anyhow. It was made for Oswald.

Tossing the plate in the sink, Ed slaps his cheeks, trying to settle the jumbled puzzle pieces of his mind back in place, but the action fails to produce results. There is only one person that could help him through this, one person _besides_ Oswald. _Kristen_.

Ed pulls his phone out of his pocket and fires off a text as he makes his way back over to his bed.

_Kristen, I need to see you ASAP._

Ed hits send then frowns. She might be busy, so he adds, _Or whenever you’re free._

 _That’s better_ , he thinks, as he tosses his phone onto the bed.

Oswald might not be here: the bed is cold, his belongings are gone, but there is one thing that lingers. His scent. Ed kicks off his shoes and climbs into the bed, lying in the spot Oswald occupied earlier, using the pillows he used, and closes his eyes. This is as close as he will get to Oswald or any type of comfort…at least until Kristen arrives.

~~~

Kristen dangles her stiletto off the toes of her right foot, swaying it back and forth as she hums under her breath, tracing the inside of her lash line with eyeliner. She can’t remember the whole song, only part of it, and she hopes that if she works her way through the whole thing, the full set of lyrics might occur to her. A buzz sends her phone scuttling across the table, and she flicks her eyes over to look at it. _New text message._ It better not be her date—

A second message comes in and the phone slides further along the surface of her makeup table; as it approaches the mirror she nabs it, discarding her hand mirror in the process. The dreaded double text! That alone makes it certain who it is….

With a flick of her thumb, the screen lifts up and away, exposing the keyboard underneath, which opens the message at the same time. Carefully holding her pencil away from her face, she scrunches up her eyes, trying to read the text on the screen without her glasses on.

It’s Edward, and of course, it’s completely context-less. Is he allergic to explaining himself, or does he assume she can parse his hidden meanings with little to no effort? Hopefully it’s not some kind of ego-thing; she’d like to believe they’re closer than that, that he wouldn’t try to establish intellectual supremacy with her, as if she were an adversary _or_ the average Gothamite.

_I have dinner plans tonight, but I’m free until then. No need to reply. I’ll swing by yours ASAP._

Sliding her phone shut again, she returns to finishing her makeup, this time sitting upright to do it, feet properly back in her shoes. Either he’s having Riddler-problems, or Eddie-problems. The use of her first name kind of gives away which of the two it might be.

The trip to his place is uneventful; she catches a bus and walks a few extra blocks instead of catching a second. They live relatively close to each other still, but the days of living in the same building are long gone, thanks to their _career_ choices. If one of them is caught, at least it would take some effort to track down and catch the other.

Kristen bounds up the stairs to Ed’s apartment and lets herself in with the duplicate key she keeps in her bag. Dumping her purse and her shoes on the floor, she looks over to see Ed laying on his stomach in bed, back to the door.

“Eddie, where’s that album with the lady on it who has the big messy up-do? I want to listen to it. It goes like, _And I think of all the things, what you’re doing, and in my head, I paint a picture_ ,” she singsongs, waving her fingers in the air along to the tune. “Your record collection is a _mess_ , how do you find anything? It’s all spread out everywhere!” Kristen complains, sitting on her legs as she crouches in front of the box of records under his phonograph. He doesn’t respond, only sighing loud enough for her to hear from a few feet away.

After staring at him for a moment, her head turned back and chin on her shoulder, she rises back up to her feet and strolls over to the bed. With a gentle glide, she sits next to him and reaches out to rub his shoulder. 

“Eddie. _Eddie._ Why are we being mopey? What’s going on? Get out of your head and try talking to me for a change.”

Ed turns his head and peeks out the corner of his eye, before burying his face back into the pillows, as he snails a hand to hers. 

“Why don’t people like me?” he mutters, but the sound barely reaches his own ears. Kristen’s hand pats his shoulder and Ed takes that as a sign to roll over. As he flops onto his back, he notices that Kristen looks as perfect as ever, every feature accentuated by her makeup. At least she’s thriving and doing well for herself. She never seems to falter for long.

Recapturing Kristen’s hand, Ed pulls her closer. How does he begin to even explain all that has happened in the past few days? He frowns when he realizes that he has never really spoken to her about his dilemmas. Will this change things between them? Ed doesn’t want to lose her, but he is losing himself by staying on this path. He has hurt too many people, caused too much havoc. The tasks that once filled him with joy now leave him unsettled when he realizes how far gone he is. Ed wishes he had never seen that godforsaken broadcast—maybe then he’d still be happy rather than questioning everything.

“I did something,” Ed utters, unable to meet Kristen’s eyes, “and I’m not sure you are going to approve of it.” He tightens his grip around her hand, hoping the exchange might transfer some of her strength into him. “I don’t want you to be disappointed in me, Kristen. I didn’t mean…well, I did, but he was so lonely and I thought I could help. I believed that we could help each other because we’re the same.”

Over the top of his glasses Ed peers up at her. She has that mask in place again, the one Ed can’t read. _At least she doesn’t look angry…yet._ That’s likely to change, although there is no telling how Kristen will take the news. No outcome Ed can predict anyhow.

“The man…Oswald, the one…you know the one. I, well, I took him from the GCPD after the attack and I brought him back here. I didn’t kidnap him,” Ed blurts and bolts into a seated position. His eyes widen and his free hand shakes before he deflates and slides back down onto the mattress. “Maybe I did, I don’t even know what’s right and wrong anymore.” Tears gather in Ed’s eyes as he holds Kristen’s hand close to his chest, desperate to have her close. She has been his support network for so many years and he needs her now more than ever. _Don’t leave me alone, too_.

 _That’s his name. Oswald._ Kristen closes her eyes a moment and thinks back to the attack they’d been involved in. The terror of it had made her forget his _name_ and he was the reason she was alive right now—and the reason she’d been at the GCPD in the first place. Looking over at her heels, she studies the scuff on the left shoe’s side. Oswald managed to yank it out of the rubble and handed it to her after he’d helped her crawl out from under his self-made shield.

It was the first moment that had brought her back out of her own panic loop; the image of him waving that shoe sliced through her flashback and brought her back into reality. She’d grabbed it, slipped it back on, and immediately sprang back into action, hoping to compensate for however long she’d been lost in her mind’s own hellish distortion. The man’s green eyes shook with fear and pain as she tried to tug him out from under the debris, holding his hand in both of hers, and he pleaded with her to give up and run, which she finally did, thanking him breathlessly before racing out of the GCPD. At some point she called Ed, but the blackout of re-triggered trauma made every sequence of events blurry, except for those eyes and that shoe.

She’d been wearing them ever since, as tangible proof that she was still here, and that that poor man didn’t suffer for nothing. Throwing herself back into the business of living, she’d planned dates, scams, even taken herself out for ice cream last night for no reason, determined to enjoy the business of living, now renewed in a way that rivaled killing her ex, than “Riddlering” with Ed, than any of the highs she’s become accustomed to in her new lifestyle.

Here she is, thriving, ignoring what doesn’t suit her, while Ed is _falling apart_. Something’s been _off_ with him for a while, but she’s never considered it to be this bad. Realizing she’s been silent for too long, lost in her own recollections, she gives Ed’s hand a tug, reaching for his shoulders with her other hand, to pull him up and into an embrace. They hold each other for a moment as she turns his words over in her head; Ed clings to her so tightly, both his hands lying flat on her back, that she’s locked by his arms in the hug. He’s crying, with his head on her shoulder, and she strokes the back of his head, trying to soothe him. They have faced so much together the last few years; whatever is killing Eddie like this, she is determined to help him figure out a way to deal with it, like every other puzzle and problem they’ve helped each other solve.

“Eddie, you’re crushing me,” she finally admits, patting his back to get his attention. “Turn around, head here,” she pats her shoulder, the same one he has his face pushed into. He follows her instructions and she holds him from behind, his long legs stretched down and almost hanging off the edge of the bed, as she wraps her arms around his waist, dropping her chin to the top of his head.

“Well, I know you’ve had an eye on him for a week or so now, but I thought you were going to stick to the poem-in-a-greeting card thing. That, or we were going to threaten to kill him if he didn’t fork over our criminal records.” She laughs sardonically. “I can never tell with us anymore, which I _do_ have to admit _is_ half the fun.”

Rubbing his arm reassuringly, Kristen ponders how to approach the questions she wants to ask, knowing she has to avoid talking in such a way that might lead to Ed shutting down and shutting her out. 

“Explain to me how you got him out of there and the inspiration for bringing him home _before_ asking him on a date. That was… _weird_ —I mean—” Kristen sighs. “I try to understand this odd brain of yours but I don’t always follow whatever it is that’s going on in here, Mr. Nygma.” She taps on his forehead jokingly. “I’m going to assume two things: Mr. Oswald didn’t like the skipping-the-formalities part, and you simply didn’t realize that you can’t just take wounded birds home with you when those birds are human beings, right? _Hmm_?”

Ed pouts as he listens to her talk, his hair falls across his forehead and he couldn’t help but think that each strand looks like bars of a cell in which all his worries and troubles are breaking through. With a puff of breath he blows the strands away and tilts his head to look at the ceiling. Ed didn’t know where to begin but Kristen gave him direction, as she often does, so after taking several deep breaths and wiping his eyes, Ed speaks.

“I couldn’t leave him there, Kristen, not trapped under the beam, not with those people. He is surrounded by them daily and yet he always looks sad.” Ed has had an eye on him for some time now, ever since their _almost_ meeting in the records room of the GCPD, and despite a few instances, Oswald’s demeanor rarely changed. “They were sucking the life out of him, and then the _bloody_ rerun duo…those reckless fools tried to finish the job off themselves.” Ed feels himself shifting back into anger at the thought of them laying a mere finger on him.

It isn’t right: Oswald never did anything to warrant such an attack. All because Fox…Ed huffs and shuffles further into Kristen’s embrace. Getting angry wouldn’t help him; anger was what set him off half the time, brewing in him a need for revenge. Ed knows that if he is to change, he needs to try and not give into that feeling. He has to be better than his rage.

“I never thanked you for looking out for him, he thanked you too, you know…at least I think he did. My head’s a mess right now so I’m not too sure.” Ed lifts a hand and tugs at his hair with a groan. It isn’t long before Kristen’s hands take his place and replaces the pulls with gentle caresses. “You are right, you often are, I don’t know why I don’t listen to you more.” A small giggle sounds in Ed’s ear but he can’t bring himself to smile. There’s little to be happy over. “Oswald didn’t appreciate my attention, nor my care and support. I tended to his injuries and was nothing but respectful. I don’t know what I did wrong, Kristen. Why doesn’t anyone like me?”

Ed turns his head and cries into Kristen’s neck as he wraps an arm around her. He can hear her soft shushing sounds but they seem so far away that they have little effect on his inner turmoil. He cries and on some level he knows he is messing up the perfect image she has created of herself for the night, but his selfishness wins out and he clings a little tighter. Ed needs her to hold him together, because she is the one thing in his life that he hasn’t scared away or destroyed, and that is a miracle in and of itself. At least he has someone that cares for him.

“He _might_ have appreciated my cooking,” Ed mumbles into her neck over the top of his sobs, “but if he did, then he…he wouldn’t have…and I don’t blame him.”

Ed sits up, pulling out of Kristen’s hold and wipes his eyes, slipping his fingers underneath his lenses. “He called me a _monster_ ,” he whispers into his palms, feeling somewhat safe as he hides his face. “A-and I know I am…I am but I don’t know if I can change that.”

Kristen caresses Ed’s face and makes him bow his head so she can nestle her chin into his hair. She waits to see if he’s going to speak again, but he only continues crying instead.

“Are we monsters?” Kristen asks with sincerity. “I wonder about that, since…since I became what I am now. _Who_ I am now.”

_Has it only been me who has been doing better since we invented our alter egos, and Ed’s only been doing worse?_

The immediate difference between the two situations that pops out to her is that she used her morality shift to empower herself, to embrace herself for who she truly is and stop forcing herself to be lesser, to conform. That former path only lead to the same kind of misery and sadness that Ed himself is all-too familiar with: recognizing they both possessed similar forms of repression and the internalized inability to solve the mysteries of _themselves_ had drawn them together, despite how different their behaviors and personalities are. Kristen flipped her life upside down the moment she chose to strike first when another abusive man tried to lay a hand on her, and she’s accepted that she had always wanted to be brave enough to be willing to do _whatever_ it takes to be in control of her own life.

Holding all the cards is the safest way to protect her heart; living in the shadows of the mysteries she used to be mutually intrigued and _frightened_ by is the place she _thrives_. There’s nothing for her on the path she’s on now that isn’t mapped out by her own two feet—there’s no love she needs to receive from another that will match the strength of the love she now has for herself. If murder, theft, deception, and aiding in the occasional wordplay-based mayhem is what it takes to ensure her lifestyle, she’s always been more than happy to take it, as she and Eddie followed each other into the dark.

She hugs Ed tighter to herself as she realizes the weight of what he’s trying to communicate: it’s something she’s known for a time now but she hasn’t wanted to accept it: the life that works for her does not work for him. If he’s even considering the fact that he wants to change it…then the writing’s on the wall—the question mark might just be a period in this case, a full stop. With a shuddering breath, she processes what to say next. Eddie will tell her how far along he is when he’s ready, but as prior experience with them proves, she might need to prod him into it. In due time.

“Well, I _adore_ your cooking, and while I’m not your target audience,” she nudges him so he gets her joke, “It sounds like it’s possible this Oswald fellow is just not that into you, sweetheart. You’re a very odd man, but someday the right boy is going to appreciate that. You can’t _force_ someone to. Didn’t I already teach you that, even though I’m a girl?”

Ed clings harder to her and she hushes soothingly, stroking his arm while he sobs more.

“That’s enough of that, _shh_. You know I’m right. Have you forgotten that you _did_ bring him here without asking? It’s hard for me to guess at his emotions when you probably scared the poor man half to death! You’re a killer, Eddie—he knows that. I can only guess what he figured you’d do to him!”

He tries to interrupt her and she shushes him loudly, silencing him.

“You have a good heart, under all your extreme ways. No one knows that better than I do, and I’m lucky I stuck around long enough to find out, but you…” Kristen wonders how to explain this to him appropriately. “You’re _bad_ at this stuff, Edward. I know you don’t like remembering it, because you were all confused back then and didn’t know better, but do you remember how much I disliked it when you wouldn’t leave _me_ alone? It’s because you can be…you aren’t good at reading people and…well…I know it’s not intentional but sometimes you’re a little overwhelming and it’s _creepy_ to be on the receiving end of it.”

Ed grows agitated and Kristen clutches him. “Now, now, I know you don’t know better, but not everyone is _me_ , not everyone has figured that out. Also, consider that Mr. Oswald might’ve said some mean things because you were scaring him, and he wanted to scare you back. The Riddler is a monster, one that Red can’t even get on the same level as. We have different goals, different interests. Why would you want to change, anyway? You’re not _happy_ like this?”

Bad, odd, creepy… _monster._ Kristen’s words ring clear, despite Ed’s muddled thoughts. She speaks everything he knows but wishes to avoid, however there is only so long one can ignore the whispers, because before too long they turn into shouts.

“T-that broadcast,” Ed stutters through a sob, “If I didn’t see that, I wouldn’t have realized what I do now.” He grabs a hold of Kristen’s arms and wraps them tightly around himself in an attempt to settle the quaking inside of him. The small tremors tense Ed’s entire body forcefully enough that even his feet shake as they dangle off the edge of the bed. 

“You know I’ve always had fun working with you, since the day you asked me for help in disposing of that _abusive_ man, my life has been better and that’s because you’ve been in it.” Ed strokes her arm as he talks. Before Kristen he was lonely, he had no one. He’d wake up in the morning to a quiet apartment, conducted his games…his _tests_ and _challenges_ alone, before returning back home to the silence. Even before that, when Ed would assist the GCPD as a civilian consultant, a task he self appointed, they shunned him. Everyone did, until Kristen. “You have been the only good thing in my life and I don’t want that to change, because I am. I-I don’t want you to leave.”

There is a chance she will, Ed realizes this, but the longer he lies in her arms, the more secure he feels in believing that she will stay. Despite a few instances in the beginning of their friendship, Kristen has never shunned him nor spoken about wanting to leave. She is happy beside him in this life they have chosen, always looking for adventure.

“I’m worse when you are not around, Kristen,” Ed whispers. The sound is barely audible to his own ears. “Something’s happening to me and I don’t like it.”

He doesn’t know if she has even noticed. Their lives, although connected, aren’t fully entwined, not anymore, not since their personas grew. “The broadcast…I don’t even remember much of that night. I had my schemes set, you know they’re always ready days in advance.” Ed feels Kristen nod against his head before she juts him with the tip of her nose, prompting him to continue when the silence stretched on. “Something went wrong, something bad, and it’s not the first time it’s happened.”

The shudders in Ed’s body rip through him, almost like electricity, zapping away, feeling all too similar to the time he _accidentally_ electrocuted himself. Ed’s scared. He’s never spoken about his mental issues with Kristen before. It’s just something that was glossed over, always there, but preferably avoided. Ed knows he can’t run from his problems now—if he wants to get better, he needs to talk, and this is pertinent information to touch on.

“I…there’s, he’s in my head, Kristen, this darker part of myself, and he keeps wanting _more._ He used to be content, he just wanted to play his games, the same as I do…or did.” Ed draws his legs up and curls into a ball. Kristen doesn’t release her hold for a second, nor does she speak and for once Ed is grateful for her silence. “I loved playing my games and took pleasure in outsmarting people but the price _he_ demands now is too great. He calls for chaos and blood…”

Ed trails off with another bout of heavy sobs and too many tears. _Why am I cursed with this life?_ He doesn’t want to be broken, shattered like shards of a broken mirror, with each piece reflecting a different part of himself, and try as he might to reconstruct his image, nothing aligns. Kristen’s hands run soothingly through Ed’s hair and down his back, calming his cries.

“I-I didn’t realize how bad it had become, how bad _I_ had become.” Ed squeezes his eyes shut, hoping to take comfort in the darkness, but all he sees are images of _that_ night. The broadcast the other week triggered his memory, but the pictures on the news weren’t half as bad as the ones in his head. Flashes of red, blood-curdling screams and laughter, maniacal laughter. It wasn’t a game. There was no reason behind that destruction, no justifiable one.

Ed blinks his eyes, shakes his head, and hisses through clenched teeth. He can feel him, the dark part of himself, stirring away in response to the conversation. Ed swallows over a lump in his throat and erects every mental block he can in an effort to contain him. He doesn’t want him free, as there is no telling what he would do.

“I didn’t realize, Kristen,” Ed cries into her shoulder. “No wonder Oswald called me a m-monster and put a knife to my throat. It’s what I deserve…”

“Wait a minute, Oswald had you at _knifepoint_? How did things get that far?!” Kristen nudges Eddie, trying to get him to look up at her, but he only pushes his face further into her. “Hey, what’s up with this scarf, why are you wearing this?” She hadn’t really noticed it until now, didn’t give it any real consideration, assuming Ed had it on for comfort for some odd reason. Kristen reaches for it, grabbing part of it to pull it off, but Ed whines loudly and shoves her hand away, rolling up so tightly on himself that now she can’t even see his neck. _He’s hiding something; what did Oswald do to him? Couldn’t he tell Eddie isn’t alright?_

 _No—but apparently neither can you_ , Kristen’s own internal voice snaps back at her. 

She pulls at the skin on either side of her eyes in frustration. Finally getting Ed to open up just to have him shut down (and shut her out) is the worst outcome. They’re in this for the long haul now, as she’ll have to work to get Ed to open up again and clarify his admissions. It’s not missing her date that she’s worried about (already figuring she’ll be spending the night here, consoling Eddie, she should text and officially cancel it soon) it’s that her only real friend is suffering this much that tears her up. Both of them are damaged people, and Kristen takes this fact for granted sometimes. Ed has more challenges to face than she does, and excluding the few times he’s helped her with something that she couldn’t solve on her own, he always has existed on a level she can’t quite understand, nor will ever reach.

Ed is motionless in her arms, tightly wrapped around himself. She wonders if he’s even truly still _there_ with her, or if his mind has already carried him far away. “I’m not going to leave, Eddie,” she says softly, stroking the back of his head. “You’ve been a true friend every time I’ve changed, why wouldn’t I do the same for you? We met for a reason. We’re…”

 _We’re like mirrors of each other_ , her mind whispers, her anxiety splitting her perception into two concurrent tracks; the familiarity of the sneering, paranoid train of thought making her stomach turn. _But instead of showing ourselves, we reflect each other: reflections of reflections, until all that is left is distortion._ Kristen refuses to say this realization out loud, unsure what it even _means_ or how it would help.

“You helped me when I didn’t know how I was going to help myself,” she cries with the admission, carefully reaching a finger under her lenses to wipe at her tears, before her mascara runs. “I don’t know how I’m going to help you but I’m your friend; _shh_ , don’t say anything, don’t argue, just listen.”

“I have another me I talk to, too. We trade places. I don’t know how to explain who is who anymore. Before, she was the woman I wished I was, the woman I became _now_ , instead of that mousey, tense thing I used to be. Now my former self is the one who criticizes me. I…” she stops talking for a moment and pulls her glasses off, burrowing her face in Ed’s hair. “I’m trying to empathize with you and I don’t think it’s helping. I don’t know what you’re going through. If this is…if you need to stop the game, stop it. And if this is Oswald’s fault, as grateful as I am for his heroism, I won’t have him do this to you, and you _know_ I won’t hesitate to do what needs to be done if he’s—”

Ed thrashes at this and mumbles something, so Kristen hushes him, changing the subject before he becomes more agitated. “Eddie,” Kristen intones, resting her cheek on the crown of his head, “what…what broadcast are you talking about?” She didn’t see it, and she questions if it’s _real_. If Ed is as far gone as she’s starting to sense he is, then all of his perception of reality is something she hates to have to call into question, but she must. 

_You can’t help him! You know he’s insane, you always have. He’s a psychopath and you are so far gone yourself that you want to feel_ sorry _for him instead of admit what you already know. You know what he is, what he’s done, and still you—_

Kristen clenches her eyes shut, willing her mind to shut up. It’s been fighting with her about Ed for _years_ ; it makes her second-guess every human being she’s ever known. Even the man who saved her life is someone she just threatened to kill. The last of her merriment from before drains out of herself as she comes crashing back into reality, pulling Ed so tightly into her chest she can barely breathe, clinging to him as she tries to ride out his emotional storm side-by-side.

 _What have I done?_ Ed thinks to himself; clinging to Kristen with every ounce of strength left in his body, but after his emotional and mental turmoil there isn’t much left. He feels weak; it isn’t an uncommon or unexpected feeling, it’s just a fact. He isn’t strong enough to save himself, to stay sane and now his _sickness_ is infecting Kristen, too. Ed feels Kristen’s tears meet his skin and each salty drop burns another weight of guilt on his heart. _What have I done?_

“This is all m-my fault,” Ed chokes out. Kristen would have been better off if he left after saving her, but no, he was selfish, desperate for a friend, for anyone to care about him, that he forgot the negative effects he has on people. He is the slow-acting poison, whose symptoms are obscured until it is too late, or perhaps he is more like the parasitic worm, eating holes through the brain, leaving behind everlasting damage. Either way he is deadly and he is destroying his _only_ friend’s life.

He should have noticed it sooner, but delusion clouds rational thoughts and shrouds reality. Ed is beginning to realize that his reality has always been skewed; why else did he have trouble connecting with people? They don’t suffer the endless questioning or the long nights where sleep is dangled just out of reach like a lure off a hook. They’re normal. They believe in themselves; in their eyes, their heart, their ears and their _mind._ Ed wishes he could find that level of certainty.

_You can trust me, after all we are the same._

Ripping himself out of Kristen’s arms, Ed knocks his glasses off his face; he runs his hands through his hair and down his cheeks, clawing at his skin in a desperation to feel something other than his mindless confusion. The voice doesn’t settle, it worms its way through cracks of the mental cage, whispers riding on shadows that lash out like whips. Striking, snapping, strangling.

_Sooner or later, we will be one._

Rocking back and forth, Ed spends several moments battling his internal demon. A few months ago his alter ego was practically nonexistent, however now he is all Ed hears. Sometimes it manifests as small nudges, prompting Ed to hiss unwarranted remarks, other times…the other times are the moments Ed becomes afraid of what he could become. Maybe he should stop being afraid and start accepting what is plain to see. The reflection of his soul.

_Accept me, accept your true nature. Only then will you be whole._

Something grazes Ed’s shoulder, causing him to flinch away, with his hands thrown over his head. In his desperation to escape the touch, Ed misjudges his movements and topples off the bed, landing in a tangled heap of limbs on the hardwood floor. 

“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!” he says, forcing his face into the ground, eyes plastered shut as his fingers tug at the strands of his hair. The mattress squeaks and Ed palpitates with terror.

_Look at you, you’re a mess._

“Be quiet!” The pain in his temples increases as he strikes his head against the ground, with hopes that his etch-a-sketch of a mind will clear, but the sinister snickers prevail, proving to Ed yet again that one can’t bash a puzzle with a hammer with the expectation that the pieces will align.

With each shuddered inhale, dust coats Ed’s tongue. He coughs through rasped breaths, then whimpers. He can’t breathe—he feels like he is suffocating. Ed knows on a rational level that this is just a response to his panicked state, but that doesn’t make the symptoms feel any less severe. Twisting his body and kicking his legs, Ed’s jittery digits claw at the scarf around his neck, tearing the noose-like contraption away. The bandage comes next, forcing a hiss through clenched teeth as the thin layer of scabbing is ripped off his wound.

Finally Ed is free.

Throwing his arms out beside him, he cracks open his eyes and watches the light dance as it streams through the window. He stares unblinkingly at the small dancing slithers of dust floating overhead. His slither of serenity is stolen from him when a gasp sounds from the bed. Ed has almost forgotten Kristen was here until now.

Her makeup is ruined, he observes with an internal sigh. Even without his glasses on, Ed can see the shock on her face as she lifts a hand to her neck, mouth agape. Ed mirrors her movements, but instead of meeting smooth skin, the pads of his fingers come into contact with his injury. 

“Don’t kill him,” he says detachedly, as he traces his wound laterally, from one point to the other, “it wasn’t his fault.” Those words force bile up Ed’s throat at the memory they provoke. Kristen had once utter similar remarks before she stopped taking the blame for others’ abuse. This wasn’t the same…it wasn’t.

Kristen’s eyes narrow as though she has access to Ed’s thoughts and there is no doubt in his mind that she is reflecting on the same sets of events, events that turned her life around.

“I know how it sounds, so please don’t look at me like that. We are _both_ aware that I come on too fast and too strong. I’m weird and odd and don’t respect personal boundaries. You’ve told me this countless times and I continually fail to listen.” Ed cracks a mirthless smile as a few stray tears seep out the corners of his eyes. Oswald is not at fault; hopefully Kristen realizes that for whilst Ed appreciates her protective nature, he will not stand for Oswald being attacked, not after he promised to help.

“I didn’t stop him, Kristen,” Ed trains his gaze back onto the ceiling after witnessing a tear roll down her flushed cheek. “I barely even cared that the knife was there, it didn’t matter, it still doesn’t, for in that moment everything made sense. It was as though fate had been playing a long-winded game and it had _finally_ reached its pinnacle, so I did the only thing that felt right. I _pushed,_ Kristen, I hung my head and waited for it all to end. It wasn’t Oswald that did this, it was me, I…wanted it to happen.”

 _Bet you would have said the same thing about yourself_ , Kristen’s inner voice hisses at her. _Every single time. How you secretly wanted, deserved it, that it was your fault, you brought it on yourself, you were_ asking _for it, you wanted it to end you, just finish it—_

Kristen crawls off the bed, lowering herself to the floor to sit with Eddie, the sensation of her fingers moving from comforter to hardwood floor, knees brushing along carpet, and the silken texture of Ed’s discarded scarf under her palms all feel fractured from her perception of reality. She knows all these things are tangible, but with the bile rising in her throat and panic coursing through her veins, her world sways, causing a disconnection.

Kneeling on the floor before Ed, she reaches out to lift him up into a sitting position, her hands stopping short when she remembers his recent scream to not touch him. A broken sob escapes her throat and she crumples, ripping her glasses off and burying her face in her hands as she wails, too overcome with despair at the horrible state Ed’s in to handle it silently any longer.

There’s a soft motion along the right sleeve of her dress and she looks up to see Ed stroking her forearm in short, unsure movements. He’s sitting up, his face blotchy and eyes hollow, but his little jerky attempts at soothing strike her so profoundly she laughs through her tears. Ed is _mirroring_ her and it’s so endearing, she feels in a rush that everything might be ok, despite Ed’s meltdown and her own paranoid descent into disordered thinking.

Ed looks utterly confused at her laughter and he digs at his wound while he keeps petting her.

“Ed, _stop that_ —no, stop digging at your neck,” she clarifies, when he stops touching her instead of leaving his neck alone. “You’re going to make it scar.”

“Maybe I want it to,” he comments, voice devoid of emotion, his fingers still drifting near it.

“I need to…I need to call Lee, you need someone to look at that, it’s going to get infected,” Kristen crawls towards her purse, crying again as she thinks about bad it looks, almost gagging as she imagines what Ed says it _represents_.

“I can take care of it myself!” he shouts, defensive and offended.

“Alright, alright!” Kristen concedes, sitting back down on her legs. There’s only so many Ed-battles she can fight in one day. “I still have to cancel my date. I’m staying here with you, don’t—I don’t want to hear a word, leave it alone.”

She’s not ready to face Ed again, still fighting off her own spike in bad mental states. Sniffing loudly, Kristen rubs at her forehead with her palms, resorting to wiping under her nose with her fingers, which makes a mess.

“You can’t have Oswald in your life,” she tells the bedspread, nodding at the looping pattern sewn into it, trying to banish the image of Ed smashing his own head off the ground. “You can’t live like this, Edward, this isn’t ok. I won’t kill him but if having him in your life hurts you like this, you know I…I…”

 _You’ll what, gut him like a fish, like you did to Tom? You didn’t even wait to see if Tom would change. You’re a killer too, Kristen. Face it. You wanted to slaughter him, you want to make anyone and everyone you can find an excuse to destroy hurt as badly as you have, to do to others twice as bad as what they’re done to you. That’s why you like Ed. You know he’s_ just _like you, you’ve seen the scars, you see what abuse has turned him into! It’s not long now until you’re as far gone as him—_

“We’re bandaging that back up. Get up, we have to go disinfect it. I’ll help.” Kristen struggles to stand on shaking legs, refusing to sit and face the wall and listen to her own broken psyche anymore, refusing to indulge it.

“If it was me, you wouldn’t let me do this to myself,” she explains, picking up the scarf, Ed watching her vacantly. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about, with the broadcast and all, but things weren’t like this before and I’m blaming Oswald. I didn’t even know why you wanted him tailed, I just did it; now look at the mess we are.” She extends a hand to Ed and waits for him to get off the floor and go to the bathroom with her.

“It’s my mess, my… _problem_.” Ed squeezes out at he taps his temple. “I don’t need you fixing me, because I don’t want to be fixed, not this anyhow,” he says as he pinches his wound, coating his fingertips with a few drops of fresh blood. Kristen looks horrified, eyes almost bulging as she shakes her head at the statement. She doesn’t need to be concerned over this, as it is this first thing Ed has been sure of in many days. 

Raising a hand, Ed takes hold of the end of the scarf, running the pads of his fingers over the woven fabric, before using it to pull Kristen back down to his level. It takes a few tugs and the raising of eyebrows for Kristen to relent, sighing as she moves to sit back down beside him.

“I know, at least I _think_ I understand what this means to you, but Oswald is not Tom or Flask or any of those bad men that hurt you. He’s good.”

Kristen is silent, Ed isn’t sure if she is even listening to him or the demons inside. Ed’s own monster is quiet _for now,_ having been repressed enough in the wake of detachment. He doesn’t feel like he is wholly in his body, and that is something that keeps him out of the claws of his alter ego. Lying his head down on Kristen’s shoulder, Ed breaths in her perfume. It is the same one she wore the night they conducted their first job, personas intact and smiles ever-present. It’s comforting, he muses as he entwines their hands, squeezing slightly, giving Kristen something tangible to hold onto.

“This mark…wound, injury, whatever you want to name it, I need it. There is this darkness inside of me, Kristen, I can feel it. It’s like molasses, thick and heavy as it sludges through my veins.” Ed shudders and tightens his grip, Kristen responds in turn and the tips of her nails press into the skin of his hand. “Darkness can only be battled with light and the mark Oswald bestowed on me, however unintentional it was, is as pure of a substance I am ever going to get. He is a part of me now.” Ed’s brows pinch as he wonders what Oswald would think of that, if he’d be happy. Ed wants him to be happy. “He will help me fight this and maybe if I try hard enough, I can win…but I need this and I need him. So don’t _blame_ him when you should be _thanking_ him.”

Ed blinks through the blur his eyes have become due to his discarded glasses. There is only so much he can perceive; all the small details are missing. The patterns on Kristen’s dress are noticeable, but the images on his walls and the framed signs are blobs, waiting for clarity. Ed is also waiting for clarity, waiting for his life, his personas and egos to make sense, to snap into focus so he can decipher them and their meanings. Rubbing his ankles together, Ed nudges Kristen’s head with his own and receives a bop in return. He smiles but it scarcely seems real, like his reactions are on autopilot, giving what is expected. Nothing has appeared genuinely authentic since the broadcast. A lump rises in Ed’s throat which he promptly swallows down.

“What’s personified cannot be unpersonified,” he whispers. Kristen lifts her head and Ed does the same. Their eyes connect and Ed doesn’t blink. _Can you see him in me, Kristen? Can you see the monster?_

“The news report broadcasted the other day…or week, I don’t know. It, well it triggered memories I did not create. The man or the monster, whatever he is, _somehow_ without cause or warning, took control and he did these things, Kristen, bad, horrific acts of pure violence and destruction.” Ed’s nose tingles as his eyes water anew with unshed tears. He sniffs and shakes his head before lifting a hand to press at the mark on his throat, hoping to settle his uneasiness. Surprisingly it works and an earnest smile spreads across Ed’s face until he takes notice of Kristen’s scowl; he drops his hand with a pout. She will get used to it, it will just take time.

“It was a bloodbath,” he tells her and the scowl morphs into shock, “and what makes it worse is that there was no purpose, no reason behind it. The reporter said it was one of the most _brutal_ tragedies Gotham has been cursed with in many years…almost reaching Pennyworth’s record. Those acts weren’t conducted by me, you know I always have to have a reason. There _has_ to be meaning, but this was senseless, cold-blooded murder.”

Ed drops his head back down onto Kristen’s shoulder and breaths her perfume in deeply. He hates thinking about this, about what he has done, because although he wasn’t in control, the only thing those people saw when they died was his face. “I may have killed people before, but never like this, Kristen, I would _never_ do this.”

“It’s not your M.O.,” Kristen reiterates, agreeing with him. “So how do you know it was _yours_? You didn’t tag it? You…you always leave a clue…” It’s hard for her to judge him when she feels like the times she’s resorted to drawing blood were life-altering enough; at the same time, she’s frightened to think that he may, in fact, have some kind of split personality. Is there even such a thing, on a level that causes behavior like that? It’s times like this she wishes she’d gotten to finish college. The answer is surely something she can research on her own. There’s so many people it could have been…Kristen runs through the list of people affiliated with the underworld: there’s the facilitators, like Lee, manipulators, like Fox, general thugs like Bullock and Gordon, thieves and killers like her and Eddie, mob families like the Keans, the psycho freak-shows like Pennyworth…it’s going to take time to narrow the list, but already she’s thinking it through, working on it.

“Like you said, Eddie, _you_ would never do this, so maybe you didn’t.” She nestles her head against to top of Ed’s, breathing slowly, grateful to be back to their old, mutually reassuring and comforting physical contact, even if she wants him to get up so she can dump some disinfectant on his neck and put a new sterile bandage on it. He keeps putting his fingers in it and it’s _disgusting_. “There’s ways to find out if you did it or not, we could—”

 _We could’ve gotten files out of the GCPD or kidnapped someone who works there and ask._ She wants to laugh at the irony of the one simple solution they have no longer being an option. 

“I’ll do some reconnaissance on it. Don’t forget, information _is_ my specialty. I’ll figure this out,” she almost pleads, clutching his hand tighter while she speaks, “give me time and don’t damn yourself to this until we _know_.”

 _I know it’s possible he could’ve done it but I don’t want to believe he’s that far gone,_ she thinks, and her mind is too exhausted to argue with her about it, for which she’s _relieved_. “Eddie…if…if you really want to…to climb out of the dark, you…” she purses her lips, mushing what’s left of her lipstick around while she thinks how to phrase this. “I don’t know if you know this, but you can’t hope for another person to change you. You have to do it yourself, understood?”

Ed pushes his face into her arm and makes a muffled sound. Kristen sighs and strokes the mess his hair has become. “Okay, okay, I think already know that, you’re right. Use this man and get out of him whatever you want—to get the life you want—you know I would be a hypocrite to not approve. But please don’t lose yourself in this,” she cards locks of his hair into some semblance of order, her short nails catching on his scalp. “Don’t become _his_ so you don’t have to deal with being _yours_. I want you to be safe about this. Don’t let him arrest you either, and stop hurting yourself. Promise me, Eddie. Just as I promise to not leave your side.”

Nuzzling into Kristen’s arm, Ed is barely able to wrap his head around her words. Oswald said he’d help, he agreed. Was that not the right thing? Should Oswald have said no, leaving him to deal with it alone? Ed has been alone for the past week, suffering in silence till his golden opportunity striked. He helped Oswald and now Oswald is going to help him. _That’s fair, isn’t it?_

Ed slaps a hand to his face—just as he was starting to make sense of everything, Kristen forces a layer of confusion down upon him. He shakes his head back and forth and his hand meets Kristen’s in his hair, although instead of the gentle, soothing caresses she administers, Ed tugs. He has spent years discovering who he is, carefully crafting who he wants to be; it isn’t Oswald that makes him want to change, it is the man inside who has gained too much control. Oswald is the best person to help him. Ed knows he can’t force Kristen to deal with his problems, not when she is comfortable with who she is. Ed doesn’t want to force her to change just because he needs to.

“Oswald won’t arrest me.” As he speaks, Ed knows his words are true; after all, Oswald already protected him from the police by sending him away from the hospital. Why would he seek imprisonment now? “He’s a good man, Kristen. I named him both my savior and executioner and he chose the former. Is that not a sign of fate?”

In all their time together, Ed has never known Kristen to be so silent. She speaks but it’s minimal compared to her usual behavior. Ed supposes that she has a lot on her mind. This day has been exhausting and draining for them both. Shuffling into a sitting position, Ed throws his head back onto the mattress, watching the dwindling light shimmer overhead. _It’ll be dark soon_ , he realizes before his thoughts drift to Oswald, wondering how he is doing and if his injuries have been assessed…not that much could be done to correct the damage.

“I promise you that I will be careful, I will be smart and I will try not to lose myself to him. I’ve lost enough of myself to…well, myself.” Ed lifts their joined hands and presses them against his chest as he strokes his thumb over Kristen’s pale skin. He swallows and softly smiles, then turns his head in her direction. “If you want to look into this issue, the broadcast, I won’t stop you, but I know what you will find. I… _he_ didn’t leave my signature behind because he’s not me, not really. He did leave me with his own gifts though, in the form of faces and screams, things they couldn’t detail on the news because frankly, it is too graphic.”

“I love you, Kristen,” Ed says as he brushes a curl of her red hair behind her ear with a sniff. “You have always been kind and supportive, a _true_ friend, but I think it’s time we accept our reality. I’m broken, there may be no fixing me. I don’t hold the key to locking the monster away, but I believe Oswald might.”

“I love you too, Eddie,” Kristen replies, blinking away a few residual tears. “I used to be so awful to you—because you used to upset me! But after I killed Tom, and I didn’t know where else to turn but to you; you still helped me.” 

Kristen caresses the back of Ed’s hand and allow herself a few more tears, the powerful, vivid memory of Ed opening the door in the middle of the night to a shocked, blood-covered Kristen, his brown eyes wide and mouth open, a soft _Miss Kringle?_ escaping his throat as she heard herself speak his name in response, her whole body vibrating with adrenaline—her hands now are clean, but Ed’s eyes are much the same, still containing a field of emotion Kristen can’t access, can’t read, can’t process.

“You were the one who noticed I was being hurt when no one else did, who helped when anyone else would have turned on me, turned me in, who never judged me when I started to change…we could admit to each other what we couldn’t to anyone else,” she laughs softly, the totality of their bond overwhelming her heart. 

There’s so much about her story with Ed that she can see in the bond he wants with Oswald, except it’s all reversed. How odd, and from how Ed seems to perceive it, how _wonderful_. Kristen can’t relate: there’s so much about Ed she never has been able to understand, and maybe it’s time she admits she never will.

“I don’t believe people can be fixed, per se,” Kristen sighs. “But people can certainly solve their problems, and they always can choose who to be. I can tell you’re smitten with the idea of who you think Oswald is—” She remembers again his green eyes, the way he yelled at her to save herself, the surprising strength and decisiveness with which he grabbed her and made the split-second decision to prioritize her safety over his—a stranger who didn’t know she was moments before _spying_ on him. Maybe she sees a _bit_ of what Ed does, but nothing else at all is similar in how she feels about the file clerk.

Smiling at the hilarity of how devoted Ed is to this man already, she fingers the scarf in her hands. “Seriously, Eddie, put this back on, looking at that thing makes me sick!” She drapes it over his neck and loops it around once, loosely this time. “I can’t go back to the light,” Kristen turns in the edges of the scarf while she pulls herself back together. “But if it’s what you need to do to be free of the parts of yourself that scare you, I support you. It’s my turn to do for you what you did for me, okay?”

Ed nods, docile and exhausted. Kristen nods back and works on retrieving their glasses, and getting her phone out of her purse as she slides her own frames on. “I have a few texts I need to send, I want to wash up, and you are going to make me some homemade mashed potatoes for dinner, mister!” 

What else they’ll do to come down from such an exhausting afternoon she isn’t sure; maybe listen to music and fall asleep. Ed looks disassociated and she knows he’ll only come back into himself in due time; it’s keeping him occupied until then that is the challenge. Gliding his glasses back onto his face, she smiles, fixing his bangs as she thinks about how grateful she is that he’s alive and sitting on the floor, even if he’s a mess, and not a corpse lying in a pool of his own blood. If he’d made one more movement to lean on that knife…Kristen shudders and pats Ed on the top of the head, their child-like dependence on each other something she isn’t ready to consider having to learn to live without.

Ed lolls his head to the side and watches Kristen retreat into the bathroom. He listens to the tap run, and the faint splashes of water as she washes her face, cleaning away the evidence of her tears. _She doesn’t deserve this,_ he thinks. Kristen was in such a buoyant mood when she arrived and now…Ed pinches his earlobe and shakes his head. It would do no good to slip back into _those_ thoughts. She wants to help, just as Oswald does. Ed isn’t alone and that’s something that brings a small smile to his face. With their help, maybe, just _maybe_ he can get better. 

“Thank you,” Ed whispers as he pushes his his frames up the bridge of his nose. Everything is in sharp focus now, a clarity he was missing without his glasses. _If only my mind was the same._ Realizing he can’t spend all evening on the floor, Ed throws an arm up, grabs hold of the metal bed frame, and pulls himself to his feet. Kristen requested potatoes, so he will provide. With a shake of his legs, he strolls into the kitchen and after washing his hands, Ed peels potatoes, slowly feeling more like himself as he completes the manual task. His hands work swiftly, lifting the skin off the potatoes with a paring knife ( _his preferred method_ ) and one by one the skinned spuds enter the pot on the stove.

Behind Ed the floorboards creak: he throws his head over his shoulder and his eyes land on Kristen, fresh-faced, skin clear of both makeup and tears, as she makes her way to the couch. He smiles and she does, too.

Turning his attention back to her meal, Ed wonders if he can still be the Riddler. If he can order his chaotic mind, will he be able to conduct his heists and games? He doesn’t want to give up such a big part of himself. Being the Riddler is fun, albeit deadly on occasion, but that could be paired back easily enough.

 _Would Oswald let me?_ The traitorous part of Ed’s mind wonders. _Would he approve?_ Before he can ponder his questions, his phone beeps from its place on the bed, forcing a frown upon Ed’s face. _Who’s messaging me?_ Hardly anyone _ever_ contacts him, nine times out of ten it’s Kristen, but she is seated ten feet away, so that rules her out of the equation. Ed crosses the room and snatches up his phone. When he reads the name of the sender his stomach flutters. _Oswald_.

_I don’t know how to clean the stain out, but I will return your robe to you anyway. Thank you for lending it._

Ed smiles and with each word he reads it broadens. Oswald is messaging him, that means Oswald is _thinking_ about him. He wants to return the robe. Ed hardly cares about the thing, he likes the thought of Oswald having something of his. They are even now, seeing as Ed still has possession of Oswald’s red scarf from the other week at the coffee shop, carefully tucked away. If Oswald wants to return the robe, does that mean Ed should go pick it up? That _has_ to be what it means. Ed pockets his phone and runs his hands down his chest, flattening his shirt. It’s wrinkled, but he doesn’t want to waste time changing, not when Oswald is waiting.

Spinning on his heel, Ed bumps into Kristen, not realizing she has crept up behind him. He laughs as his hands drop to her shoulders, steadying her before returning to his shirt and hair, fiddling excessively.

“How do I look?” he asks and Kristen stares aghast, mouth opening and closing as her head shakes back and forth. “Never mind, I don’t have time to spare.” Ed scampers around her and slips on his shoes. He turns back and forth looking for his keys and when he finds them, he whispers, “Gotcha.”

“Ed, where are yo—”

“Kristen,” Ed cuts her off as he wraps his arms around her, hugging her tightly against his chest. “Thank you for everything, for being here for me when I needed you. I wish I could stay but I need to go. Oswald…he, I-I need to go.” With a press of his lips to her head, Ed scurries out the door, but not before reminding Kristen about the potatoes on the stove.

Ed tears out the door so fast, the top half of his body leans forward as he runs, and Kristen shouts after him, too delayed for him to have heard her. What the hell was that about? Oswald…Oswald what? Did he contact Ed? Kristen hopes it isn’t a trap. Ed is hopeless when he has a crush, but this is so much worse. He’ll clearly do anything for just the _mention_ of Oswald and it concerns her.

She flicks the knob on the stove top to turn it off—no way she’s wasting her time making her own dreadful cooking instead—and returns to where she left her shoes, slipping them on. That scuff mark she studied before makes her contemplate how far this Oswald might be willing to go to save people. She is _living_ proof he seems to care for others more than most would. Maybe he’ll save her Eddie from himself after all. 

Kristen drops her purse on Ed’s bed and rummages through it. There’s no point in staying here, and she might as well head out, get a few drinks or something. Her phone displays the time when she flicks the screen up. 37 minutes until her date. There’s still time!

Grabbing a comb, she dashes back into the bathroom to rearrange her hair. Sizing the woman in the mirror up, she envisions her true self, the woman only momentarily derailed by the weight of this afternoon’s emotions, taking the place of herself. It’s a mental exercise she does indulge in; a confidence booster. 

Instead of the tight-laced, neurotic _thing_ she’d been before, now she lets her red hair loose, her green eyes shining behind her glasses, her smile bright, despite the absence of her favorite red lipstick. She should go get the tube out of her purse, surely it’s the touch she needs to feel like _herself_ again—no. She grins. Going lipstick-less is almost an invitation for kisses, she tells herself, winking at her reflection in the mirror for fun.

Throughout the hours (and many whiskeys later) of her evening, Red catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar as she leans in to whisper in Valerie’s ear; she manages to still keep her balance in her heels, shouting along to the song a bunch of people leaving the bar started singing, where she sees herself in the darken glass of a closed storefront. 

There’s her face in the taxi rearview mirror when she reaches for Valerie’s hand as they climb inside, and she studies herself more intently in the reflective surface of a fancy hotel’s nameplate when she passes by, after saying goodnight. 

It feels like no time passes at all when she scrubs her face raw before climbing into bed. When she catches a glimpse of _Kristen_ in her own green eyes, she knows tomorrow she’ll have to reconcile with all that has passed today, but for now, Red climbs out her window, one last whiskey in hand, to watch the city lights, a book in her other hand she knows she won’t read, but brings with her anyway, a tangible comfort in always knowing she’ll never go bored, never go without, in the abstract decision to never have life be _less_ than the shining whirlwind it can be. The rough fabric cover of the book in her lap is proof of that!

 _You’re drunk_ , she laughs to herself, and wonders if Eddie is alright as she takes a sip of her drink. _What a crazy week…!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the love and support you've shown us, we couldn't have asked for a better response! Next chapter we'll be back with Oswald and Ed at the hospital and there will also be a surprise appearance from someone we have yet to see.


	4. “I will not be disrespectful. I will not be disrespectful.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Oswald start out on their journey as mentor and mentee.
> 
> They couldn't be less prepared to handle each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another chapter where we want to draw attention to the updated fic tags. There's a scene in this chapter that deals with a rough scenario (re: violent thinking); the passage isn't what it seems and it will make sense if you keep reading, but we want our readers to be forewarned about some of the imagery used. 
> 
> This chapter brings in lots of easter eggs and foreshadowing; enjoy them all as we move into the bulk of the first plot arc in this story!

Ed’s fingers tap the steering wheel as he waits for the traffic lights to flick green. He counts down the seconds, which seem to drag on longer than he would like, and his toes wiggle in his shoes. _Oswald_. He is going to see Oswald again. It may only have been a few short hours since their last encounter but Ed is thrilled nonetheless.

Another light captures him and Ed is forced to stop. Eyes narrowing suspiciously, he wonders if this is on purpose. _That makes five red lights in three minutes. Why is everything against me?_ He huffs as he stares unblinkingly at the turnoff for the hospital.

“Hospital,” Ed whispers, as his mind gives way to thought.Oswald is in the hospital and as conventional standards state, this requires a gift of some sort. “I can’t show up empty-handed,” Ed says to himself, flicking through his mind as though each thought is but a page in a book, searching for something… _anything_ to bring, but finds himself falling short of options.

_You don’t even know him._

“I know enough,” Ed argues, feeling discouraged at the truth behind the words his internal voice speaks. There isn’t much Ed knows about Oswald, apart from—

Ed makes a left turn at the next street, followed by a right, before he parks and exits his car. He crosses the street in fast strides and arrives at the door just as it is being closed. Shooting out a hand, Ed wedges his fingers in the narrow space with barely a flicker of pain as they are crushed. “Jervis, please, I need coffee.”

The two men stare at each other through the clear pailing of glass before the door is crack open and Ed’s fingers are released.

“And the man appears, from shadows deep and requests a beverage to starve off sleep.”

“No, a gift,” Ed counters, as the corners of his mouth tilt into a smile. Oswald likes coffee, that was one of the _only_ things Ed knew about him. “I have no other options, this…I, please.”

“It’s late, Edward,” Jervis says, as he snaps closed his pocket watch, stuffing it inside his waistcoat.

“I’m more than aware that this is an unconventional time, but I have no place else to go. It _has_ to be here.”

Not two seconds later, Jervis steps to the side and Ed enters, with a relieved sigh parting his lips. Although there are several other coffee shops open, businesses that run all hours of the night, they aren’t the same. This was where Ed first met Oswald, bumping into him one bustling morning. Coffee was spilt all over Ed’s coat and seeped through the layers of his shirt. The heat was scalding, but it was nothing compared to the internal warmth Ed felt as Oswald mopped up the liquid with his red scarf, then stormed off. Ed was left alone with a smile on his face and in possession of that scarlet strip of fabric. Even though barely a few words were exchanged between them, Jervis’s coffee shop _Mugs not Madness_ held a special place in his heart.

“So, the order: two pumps or three? Black or white? What desires thee?”

Ed chuckles at the overused line. Without knowing the situation, Jervis Tetch has managed to detail the fundamental aspects of Ed’s life, signifying the opposing paths that parallel each other but never meet. The broadcast was the axis that pivoted Ed towards the light. He wasn’t there yet, but with fingers elongated, he grazes the underside of his chosen direction, not quite being able to grasp it. He needs Oswald’s help for that.

Fluttering his eyes, bringing himself back to his current setting, Ed prattles off his order, only to find Jervis sliding it in across the counter, having completed it already.

“You work fast,” he comments, as he pours three sachets of sugar into the cup and gives it a quick stir.

“You continually order the same thing.”

Ed shrugs, picks up his drink and takes a sip. Black and heavily sweetened—just the way he likes it. Oswald though, from what Ed has observed, favors his beverage on the other side of the spectrum. Intentional or not, their drinks match their lives. Dark and light, separate but entangled.

“For the other drink, I want you to follow my specifications exactly.”

“There’s a reason you are my favorite customer, Edward. What is it you desire?”

Ed bites his tongue to save from commenting on the first thing that flashes through his mind. He will see him soon enough, with a gift in tow, too.

“Coffee, white.” Ed says, as he recalls Oswald’s previous order. “Two thirds a cup of water, heated to 208 degrees Fahrenheit— _no_ higher, Jervis. I mean it, this _has_ to be perfect. Oh, and scald the milk, do _not_ boil it, as it will throw off the composition.”

They smile at each other, and Jervis gets to work on the second beverage. “Fresh beans,” Ed shouts as an afterthought and without argument, Jervis complies. Ed keeps a close eye on him, leaning over the counter as he has done many times before, making sure each step is executed as per his specifications. Although he has altered Oswald’s usual order, Ed feels sound in his decision. It’ll taste better this way.

Moments later, Ed heads back to his car, juggling the two cups of coffee and resumes his trip to the hospital. His slight detour has put him behind schedule, however Ed hopes that the offer of coffee is more than enough to calm any ire Oswald feels at the delay.

~~~

Six minutes, two red lights, and one disgruntled receptionist later, Ed strolls into Oswald’s room. His broad grin falters when his eyes land on the bed, taking notice of Oswald’s curled-up state. _Is he mad at me? Am I too late?_

“Oswald,” Ed whispers, after settling the cups on the side table in favor of tapping the man on the shoulder. He jumps back when Oswald startles and throws an arm out in attack. “I- I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, but I bought you something.”

Ignoring the look Oswald is giving him, Ed smiles and hands over the reason for his belatedness. “When this beverage comes into play, people are ready to face the day, but if you ever take it away, there’ll surely be hell to pay. What am I?”

The internal battle between wanting to laugh and wanting to scream hits Oswald so intensely that for a moment he ends up emotionally devoid. The Riddler not only showed up without warning, back at his bedside _again_ , but he has finally told Oswald a fucking _riddle_.

Oswald ends up, much to his humiliation, bursting into tears _again_ , for what feels like the hundredth time in one day. Hand over his mouth, hyperventilating and overcome with stress at being back in the same situation he was in about twelve hours ago, Oswald slams a fist into the mattress as he cries out of frustration.

“Why are you _here_?” he seethes, trying not to shout. “It’s only been a few hours!” 

_Why did I text him?_ Why _did I do that?_ Oswald chastises himself. He’d only wanted to communicate some kind of gratitude for Edward finally doing the right thing…none of the preparations he’d wanted to make before seeing Chess Idiot again were in place; of course they weren’t, he’d only discussed them with Fish a few hours ago!

Oswald looks from the to-go coffee cup to Edward’s face and back. “You brought me _coffee_. I assume this is symbolic?”

“I…ah.” Ed chokes on his words as he watches a tear roll down Oswald’s cheek. This isn’t supposed to happen; he shouldn’t be crying again, he should be happy. “It’s your order,” Ed says as he attempts to shift the cup into Oswald’s possession, “not your _exact_ order as your quantities were off, however, I amended that. It should be perfect now.”

Ed’s heart hammers as Oswald stares…no _glares_ at him, so he settles the drink down in favor for creating some space. He paces the room, counting his steps and chews on his thumbnail, eyes catching Oswald’s own before flicking away. 

_He doesn’t want you here. You upset him._

Ed’s feet bolt to the floor at the sound of his internal voice and he runs his hands down the front of his shirt, fighting off the urge to flee. He was here now, even _if_ Oswald despises him for visiting, it wouldn’t change their current predicament. Ed wracks his brain for a way to fix the situation. With a smile, he opens his mouth and utters the first thing that comes to mind.

“Did you know,” Ed steps forward with fingers pointed, only to retreat three paces at the look in Oswald’s eyes. He gulps down the lump in his throat and makes his way to the end of the bed before starting again. “Did you know that coffee was first discovered by a shepherd in the eleventh century, who, when herding his goats, noticed their energetic state after eating these unknown ‘berries.’ He shared his knowledge with the head monk at the local monastery, who brewed a drink using them and confirmed his observation. This knowledge spread through the country and was built on the surprising relationship that brought these two men together.”

 _The surprising relationship that brought these two men together._ That line echos in Oswald’s head.

The rate at which rage and anxiety drains itself out of his bloodstream shocks him. Riddle Idiot is _embarrassed_. This is the most extreme version of the softer side to this man that Oswald has witnessed so far; to see that almost _innocent_ side again (especially after all that has passed between them) softens Oswald, despite himself.

Edward looks at the ground, then smiles uselessly, his expression exaggerated (Oswald assumes) to compensate for the sadness in his eyes.

It occurs to Oswald that this is Edward’s version of the text message—an attempt to acknowledge what’s forming between them, working against a large deficit in either of them being capable of truly communicating freely about the situation. Oswald puts up defenses—Oswald knows he puts on a hell of an act in his life. He dismisses people and downplays his emotions for them (only showing the truth to a select few—and truthfully only because they can read past him anyway, like Fish can). Edward literally speaks in riddles, shares random trivia, talks like he hopes someone won’t hate him for opening his mouth for once.

Without breaking eye contact with Ed, Oswald reaches forward for the cup. Before he takes a sip, he announces, with a quirk of his eyebrow, “It’s a bad cliché that _coffee_ brought us together—it’s so bad, I’m starting to question it.”

He wipes the trail of tears on his cheek away and drinks.

It’s the best coffee he’s ever had.

“How…how did you… _thank you_ ,” Oswald whispers, before taking another, longer sip.

Ed straightens, spine lengthening, as Oswald pulls more coffee from the cup. His fingers tighten and tap on the end of the hospital bed as elation bursts inside of him. Oswald is pleased. It may just be with the coffee, but Ed is the reason for it being in Oswald’s possession now, so he chalks that up as a massive win.

Willing himself not to jump about the room, Ed strolls over and picks up his own cup. He nurses it in his hand while he moves to sit on the bed, feeling no reluctance over doing so as they had done this before…and Oswald is noticeably less volatile now.

He pulls his own sip of coffee, enjoying Oswald’s company more than the beverage and smiles.

“Coffee is basically science, well, _most_ things are. It’s all about composition balance, making sure to stabilize all components so they work in harmony. Your previous order was undeniably inadequate…unless you prefer it that way?” Ed prattles out the last few words with such speed he is surprised that his tongue didn’t tie itself together.

“If you want me to change it back, I can.” Ed nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose, fingertip lingering as he licks his lips. “You agreed to help me and I want you to know that I will assist you with whatever you need.”

Dropping his hand to Oswald’s leg, Ed shares a tight lipped smile. It falls mere seconds later when he takes notice of the cast on Oswald’s knee. Ed frowns at it, as he strokes his thumb across the plastered end, hating the rerun duo for injuring him, for leaving Oswald crippled for the rest of his life all in the name of _street credibility._

Oswald rips Ed’s hand off his leg, throwing it back into Ed’s own lap, away from himself. Ed startles at the rough treatment.

“ _Stop_ touching me without asking!” Oswald commands, leaning forward. He swallows back how forceful he would be with anyone else, since his aim is to restrain Ed, instead of spitting rage at him. “Don’t show up where I am without _asking_ first, either,” he disciplines, pointing a finger at Ed. “You can be of service to me by, again, respecting me!”

Sure that he’s properly subdued Ed for the moment, Oswald leans back and takes another sip of his coffee. After the exhausting ordeal of the morning, Oswald can’t believe he is being cavalier enough to speak to Edward like this again. Loathed as he is to admit it, it’s clear there’s something about Ed that _invites_ Oswald to indulge in the dangerous, something for which he needs to remain vigilant about. Then again, one look at the scarf around Ed’s neck and Oswald is sure that Ed got the message about how he was treating Oswald. From here on out, it will be a matter of teaching Edward to _behave_ as one of the so-called “normal” people he so badly wants to be.

“The coffee truly is fantastic. I haven’t had one this delicious since I was young.” He drinks again, more than halfway through the beverage already; with how _good_ it is, it’s a challenge to not gulp it all at once. Rubbing the cup’s cardboard under his nails, his fingers circling the bottom of the cup, Oswald quirks an eyebrow at Ed. “How long did you follow me before you had my order memorized?” he asks, deadpan, sardonically making it sound off-handed.

Ed drops his chin to his chest, still feeling thoroughly admonished, despite Oswald having complemented the coffee. He peers up over the frames of his glasses and blinks, mind turning quickly in an attempt to keep up with the rapid mood changes, to find a pattern. _I guess he still is volatile._ Ed can’t make sense of Oswald: he thought he had him all figured out even before their first meeting. Things were so clear then; however now he is being mocked with how little he understood.

He thumbs the lid of his cup, fingers plucking the plastic rim, creating little ticks and vibrations to fill the silence. Oswald’s brows raise as he takes another sip of his drink and Ed’s shoulders slump. _Am I about to make Oswald mad again?_ The silence is doing that well enough, he realizes, and Oswald doesn’t appear like the type of man who particularly enjoys waiting. The look in his eyes tells that tale well, as does the clipped tone Ed finds himself repeatedly lashed with. 

“I… _ah_ , I memorized your order the very _first_ time I heard it. Things generally tend to stick without much thought, so it’s not like—” Ed shifts before sighing with a shake of his head.

“I followed you for roughly…no, not roughly, _exactly_ six days, before approaching you in the coffee shop. It was the optimal location, you see, as you hardly travel anywhere, unless it’s to work or Mugs not Madness and it’s not as though I’d—”

Ed cuts himself off and forces several gulps of coffee down his throat to keep his traitorous tongue at bay. Oswald would not appreciate hearing that the location of his home is common knowledge. All the information Ed obtained, all the information he _prides_ himself on gathering, feels like a curse in light of recent events. Which utterance would result in Oswald sending him away with finality?

He lifts his chin as his hands continue to fiddle with his cup. Moving down from the lid, they tick over the corrugated ridges, nails catching each line. _Forty-six in total._

“I’m sorry.”

Oswald is silent for a moment, looking in the same vacant direction Ed is. 

“Thank you,” he replies, after the moment passes. _I…did not expect that from him._

Biting his lips from the inside, Oswald drums his fingers on the cup a few times before throwing back the rest of the coffee in a continuous gulp. 

“It’s a good sign that you feel remorse when looking back on your misconducts,” Oswald remarks, after he finishes drinking. “It’s an indicator there’s hope for you yet,” he adds, looking Ed in the face. He turns and meets Oswald’s eyes, lips parted slightly. Oswald sighs and looks away again, suddenly changing his mind about initiating eye contact. He tosses the coffee cup into the trash bin near the bed, and he and Ed lapse into silence again.

Sighing once more, Oswald rubs at his face, the swirling confusion of emotions exhausting him past a point he wasn’t sure he’d even reached before. _Dealing with Edward hopefully won’t always be so tiring, will it?_ Again, Oswald questions all his decisions regarding the mess of a man he’s agreed to help.

“I have nothing else to change into,” Oswald admits, rubbing the sleeve of the robe that _isn’t_ stained. “When I said I would return it, I meant at my earliest convenience.” He’d left the suit jacket he’d worn the day of the attack at his desk; he wonders if it’s still there, or if it too has been destroyed, stained and tattered, the way his button-down shirt had been. “Perhaps by then I’ll have figured out how to clean it myself, though with how you speak of science, I assume it’s not a challenge for you to solve it yourself.”

“Yes, I know how to remove the stains,” Ed laments with eyes trained on Oswald’s hands, watching his fingers fiddle. “It’s only a matter of finding the right…”

Ed bites his tongue. Oswald doesn’t want to hear about this, about all the different ways he knows how to remove blood and other bodily fluids. It’s useless trivia to him, but practical knowledge for Ed. After all, one can’t live a life of crime and expect to stay clean. People are messy, inside and out.

“Keep the robe. I have others…or, well, I can get another. It’s no hassle.” Ed swirls the coffee around in his cup; no longer feeling like drinking it, he leans forward and places it back on the small nightstand. With his hands free, he runs them up and down his thighs, for no other reason apart from comfort, a way to distract himself from reaching out for Oswald. _He can’t even stand to look at me. Maybe I should have stayed away._

Ed flicks his gaze to Oswald’s knee and resists a scowl in favor of keeping his face blank. The rerun duo are likely scurrying through the the streets, like the rodents they are—perhaps it is time to set a trap for them and remove them from the equation, so that Oswald will stay safe. _No._ Bringing them in would please Oswald and make Ed out to be the hero. That’s certainly a favorable alternative.

He smiles, mind set. _I will make him proud!_

“Oswald,” Ed says, leaning towards the man, with his mouth twisting into a smirk, “when is it bad luck to see a black cat?”

Oswald stares blankly.

“When you’re a mouse,” Ed answers seconds later and begins to chuckle.

“Oh, that’s it, out! Out!” Oswald demands, pointing at the door. “We are _not_ doing this. I’m exhausted! I didn’t _ask_ you to come here, I was _sleeping_ , and I’m giving you the benefit of believing that you are too intelligent to imply that I am the prey to be caught in any of your games, so, whatever you’re prattling on about surely must not include me.”

Edward looks stunned, leaning back, his palms splayed in his lap. Oswald holds up a hand before Ed tries to speak again. “It’s important I rest—even you have stressed that, so, goodnight, Edward!” he speaks in a measured pace, trying to see if he can impart onto even a modicum of Edward’s empathy and overabundance compulsion to “care” for Oswald, but all Ed does is offer Oswald another blank face, with those brown eyes wide with thoughts Oswald can’t read (and he’s grateful to not be able to presently, in all truth).

Oswald jabs a finger in Ed’s direction, then navigates it towards the door. “Don’t look sad about it! It’s not as if you had an easy day, either. If you’re concerned about when we will meet again, I already gave you my word. After I’m discharged—which you will not know the date of, because you are to respect my confidentiality and not access my records—I will contact you at _my_ discretion and if we are to meet in person, those arrangements will be made by me and me _alone_. Again, Edward, I wish you a good night. It’s time for you to depart.”

Springing to his feet, Edward finally vacates Oswald’s bed. He dawdles for a moment, taking two or so aborted steps forward, pulling on his jacket. With a nod in Oswald’s direction, Edward’s gaze cast to the ground, he turns and begins his exit, saying goodnight in return so quietly it is a surprise he could be heard. He stops walking, hanging in the doorway, shoulders slumped, and Oswald tries to think of a quip that will get him out the door.

“It was kind of you to…visit. And for the coffee. And the apology; I appreciate it.” Oswald blurts out instead. Edward’s head rises and he nods, before stepping out.

Oswald closes his eyes for a moment in gratefulness, breathing deeply, staving off the last of his tumultuous reactions to the trail that today has been, only exacerbated by Edward’s impromptu “visit.” At least Oswald feels more confidence in his initial judgements of Edward from yesterday (though that seems a lifetime ago, compared to the last twelve hours). Edward is dangerous and _ridiculous_ , but his natural state seems to dictate that his disasters are turned inward, on himself.

The Riddler is the part of the equation Oswald is supposed to subtract; where is the line between the man who rambles coffee facts and the man who stalked him at his favorite coffee shop?

Looking at the case files Oswald put to the side, choosing to sleep before studying them, he wonders how long it will take to truly come to _know_ Edward—and if he ever will. Edward’s own coffee cup sits before Oswald, acting as a remnant of all that’s come to pass between the two of them in such a short time. Fact versus fiction; good versus evil. Again, Oswald questions how he’s gotten himself in this mess. A combination of bad luck and an over-ambitious drive have made enough of a mess of his life; just when he’s quieted down, trouble has found him, and a challenge has presented itself. The itch to succeed against all odds wars with the taught instincts to protect himself from that which could destroy him.

He doesn’t feel like the mouse, _or_ the cat. He feels like _himself_ again, for the first time in so long, the absence so clear now that he’s back in his old mindset. Smiling, Oswald sinks back into the pillows, shaking off the shudder that races up his back, a thrill he swore he wouldn’t toy with again—yet fate has found him a new mission, despite it all.

~~~

_A few weeks later…_

Oswald looks around the corner, checking the hallway before he even _thinks_ about stepping out. Turning back around to scowl first, Oswald tugs Ed forward by the arm, hand tight around his wrist, propelling him forward as Oswald marches them down the hallway. He can feel Ed lose his balance and regain it quickly, long legs no doubt floundering with the force of Oswald dragging him.

He marches them down to one of the empty interrogation rooms, rips the door open, and tosses Ed inside.

“Wait here!” he instructs, closing the door behind him. 

_There’s only so much more of this I can take_ , Oswald grouses to himself as he storms off, looking for the items he needs.

Digging his fingers into his thigh to offset the pain, Oswald balances himself on the edge of the closest desk, palm out flat to support his weight, as he tries to take it off his leg. He left his cane at his desk when he’d left for a moment to make a copy, before he found Edward skulking outside his office door, two coffees in hand and his typical nerdish grin plastered across his face, tight-lipped and eager. 

Oswald grabs some loose, blank papers and a yellow lead pencil off the desk before stomping back to where he left Ed.

He whips the door open and Ed startles, speaking Oswald’s name with his hands out, waving them in defense.

“Sit!” Oswald orders, pointing at the chair. He slams the objects down, then splays his hands across the desk as he leans forward and stares Ed down. 

“Seven times. _Seven times!_ This is the seventh time you have broken my most simple rule and shown up without _asking me first_!” Jabbing a finger in Ed’s face, Oswald grits his teeth in frustration and growls. “I’m going to make you learn to _not_ do this, by any means necessary!” 

He shoves the papers closer to Ed and looks at them, then back into Ed’s astonished face. 

“You are going to write this sentence out: ‘I will not be disrespectful and show up uninvited,’ over and over, until you _understand_ what the statement means.”

Ed tries to cut in and Oswald holds his hand out to shut him up. “Until you fill the pages!” he clarifies, before standing back up straight, fists balled, and leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Ed scowls at the door with cursing retorts on his tongue. This cavalier attitude of Oswald’s is really not becoming of him. Why punish a guy for doing something nice? It’s only coffee. Maybe if Oswald _drank_ some, he’d calm down and appreciate how kind of a gesture it was. No, _instead_ he opts for walking around with his cane figuratively up his ass and a fiery temper to match. When Ed asked for help, this isn’t exactly what he expected and it _certainly_ wasn’t what he needed. It is obvious Oswald doesn’t quite understand the role of _supportive mentor_.

With a roll of his eyes, Ed turns his attention to the paper and his frown deepens, lips parting and curling. “Write _this_ , Edward, do _that_ , Edward, listen to me, _Edward_ ,” he mocks, then slaps his hands down on the table. “I’m not a child.”

Picking up the pencil, Ed turns it over in hand once, then snaps it in half, tossing the pieces at the two-way mirror in half-hearted hopes that Oswald is there. He waits a count of ten seconds, then looks away with a huff when his outburst goes unanswered. Oswald has deserted him, sealing him inside an interrogation room, to do what? Go accept coffee from someone else? Maybe have some brunch, too? There’s no telling with him. Even a month down the line, Ed continually struggles to figure him out.

As his frustration abates, Ed peers down at the broken pieces of the pencil that lie on opposite sides of the room. _Well, that’s unusable now._ If Oswald comes back soon and sees that he hasn’t started on his task, Ed will be forced to deal with his ire again. That can’t happen. Scurrying to pick up the pieces, looking around for some tape or adhesive to stick them back together, Ed finds only the papers on the desk and little else, bar two cups of untouched coffee.

_This is an interrogation room, you idiot. Of course it’s empty._

“Thank you, you’re _so_ helpful.”

Ed tosses the pieces again and paces the room. If Oswald wants this done, then he is going to do it his own way, not with a broken pencil that he’d have to hold in the very tips of his fingers. No, it would be much more impressive. Straightening with a smile, Ed steps to the door, testing the handle with a twist of his wrist. _So I’m not locked in. Perfect._

Peering out of the room, Ed half expects to see Oswald standing there with a frown, having anticipated this. _Would he even noticed if I left?_ No, the ungrateful man was off doing god knows what…without him. _Well, I’ll make him notice me soon enough,_ Ed muses as he makes his way to the central hub of the GCPD to begin rifling through people’s desk.

Officers Paul Dekker, Leonard Fiasco, Abner Krill, William Tockman and Julian Day were utterly useless and lacked the tools he needed. A ballpoint pen or a lead pencil would not serve him well enough; he required something far superior. Something unanticipated.

“Hey, mister, can I help you?”

Ed spins around with wide eyes and find himself in front of an officer who doesn’t look too pleased to see his desk ransacked. Taking in the appearance of the man with a sweep of his eyes, Ed steps forward with a smile and flicks his name badge.

“No, _Officer_ Brown, I don’t believe you can…but _he_ might be able to.”

Without another word, Ed scampers over to the other side of the room and insinuates himself in front of a bookish looking man, who flinches in surprise. One would think a reporter would be accustomed to dealing with people.

“Mister Kignor, surely you wouldn’t disappoint me.”

“Excuse me, do I know you?” the man balks and takes a step back.

Ed laughs and rubs his hands together. Kignor may not know him but he would know of the Riddler. How easily a mask and a hat could alter perceptions; Ed is unnoticeable to the people of the city, to those outside of the underworld, free to roam the streets untouched.

“No, I suppose you don’t.” Shooting out a hand, Ed waits for Kignor to accept before giving it a quick shake. “I’m Edward,” he says with a smile, “and I’m after a fountain pen. I have… _notes_ to take and the ballpoint variety is subpar. You seem like just the man to help me.”

Five minutes later, Ed walks away from the encounter, twirling the pen in hand. He quickly slides back into the interrogation room, hoping that Oswald hasn’t come to check on him in the time he was absent, and climbs onto the desk. Spreading the papers out on the table, Ed writes, curving and twirling each letter.

Two of the four pages in, Ed is interrupted when the door is thrown open. He pulls the papers close to his legs, ready to hiss at Oswald for intruding when he wasn’t ready, however it is not Oswald who is paying him a visit. It’s the Captain: Fish Mooney.

“Y-you can’t arrest me, I’m not breaking in, I’m here with Oswald…well, I was, but he ran off somewhere and—” Ed’s words die on his tongue when the Captain scowls at him, lips pursed, eyes hard. It is enough to send a shudder down his spine. Oswald’s frowns pale in comparison to hers.

She makes her way into the room and Ed straightens, hand tightening around the pen. She doesn’t speak until her eyes gloss over the pages of repetitive lines and shift back to his face.

“Get off the table.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ed squeaks. Somehow managing not to trip over his own legs, he rushes into his chair and taps his fingers on his thighs. _What does she want with me?_ The answer turns out to be _nothing._ Fish Mooney spins on her heel and stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Alone again, Ed climbs back onto the table, albeit with more hesitation than the first time, and continues writing. Ink is etched into the paper, yet the words blur in his mind. This is a useless lesson: the more repetitive the action, the less concentration is required. The information is filtered out, fading away to nothingness.

As he begins his final line, swirling the pen to create the cursive ‘I’ at the beginning of the sentence, Ed is interrupted again. He tenses, ready to throw himself off the table, only to sigh with relief when he realizes that it is Oswald who is paying him a visit.

_Oh crud, that’s not good._

“Go away, I’m not finished yet,” Ed hisses as he gathers the papers, bending over them to hide his work from Oswald’s prying eyes. He can’t see them before they are completed! The work has to remain a secret until then, otherwise it won’t achieve its intended impact.

Oswald’s hand tightens on the doorknob; Ed can hear the subtle creak. The sound sends a worrying thought through Ed’s mind. If Oswald leaves now, it may yet be another hour till he returns. Eyes widening, he scrambles to the edge of the table, hands grasping the lip, before Oswald can take a single step. 

“Wait, give me…six seconds.” 

At the narrowing of Oswald’s green eyes, Ed shifts his attention back to the paper and ends the final line.

Pinching his shoulders together, Ed cracks his back and gathers the papers, organizing them in a neat pile, before shifting off the desk. A thought strikes him before he can take a step away and Ed snatches up Oswald’s tepid coffee with a smile, then makes his way over to the man.

“At your request,” he says transferring the notes to Oswald’s possession, whose eyebrows furrow as he glances down. Ed uses his distraction to remove the lid off the coffee cup, before tipping the beverage all over the sheets in Oswald’s hand.

“Enjoy your coffee, Mr. Cobblepot.”

First, Oswald goes very still. 

He plans on throwing the papers to the side and then kicking Edward hard, bringing him crashing to his knees in a howl of pain. Then, with a rolling shake, Oswald will loosen his arm up, so when he swings it, the recoil will cause the least amount of harm to himself, with the additional benefit of the weight of his arm inflicting greater damage when he backhands Ed so hard it will send his glasses flying, the force of the strike almost knocking Oswald off his own feet.

“Ungrateful cretin!” he’ll bellow, bending at the waist so his head is parallel with Ed’s, who will be too shocked to look him in the face. Trying to cradle his jaw and wincing when he touches it, Ed won’t respond. Instead, he’ll slowly tilt his head, locking eyes with Oswald with a look of…further defiance, Oswald decides, so he’ll wind up a punch this time, tensing the muscles in his arm and shoulder, deciding he will beat Ed into the _ground_ for all he’s put Oswald through.

The intensity of his long-repressed sadistic thirst unleashing itself is going to leave Oswald _panting_ , as it coursing its way through his bloodstream like a drug he’s been longing for all this time.

 _You think you can keep pushing me and get away with it?_ Oswald considers asking. _You have_ no _idea who I truly am, what I’m capable of._

He shakes with the longing, so soon to be sated….

Or, Oswald imagines instead, when Ed turns to face him, his eyes will be watering, that ever-present scarf he’s forced to wear now slipping down his throat. Something about his face, soft despite the betrayal, shows that he not only can take what Oswald deals out, but that he _expects_ it, and probably has for much longer than Oswald’s known him.

Watching the light flicker from Ed’s eyes will only take a few heartbeats, as he realizes Oswald is the same as everyone else, as he understands he is only contemptible and unworthy of kindness or forgiveness, as he slides back into the instability Oswald has tried to drag him out of since they met. It wouldn’t take long for Edward to give up, or to give in, or for Oswald to accept that the reason he knows Edward is a monster is because Oswald is one, too. 

_Do you understand what you saw in me, now?_ Oswald will consider asking in this scenario, tears forming in his own eyes, still shouting, but this time in despair.

It’s why Oswald does none of it, doesn’t touch Edward at all, doesn’t lay a _finger_ on him, keeping the visceral fantasies locked in his mind, where they make his stomach turn with revulsion at what a villain he _himself_ is for even having such thoughts in his subconscious.

Oswald simply drops the wet papers on the floor between them, strange, swirling lettering meticulously covering the pages from the very edges of every side.

“I’m done with you. Get out,” he tells Edward, with his head still bent down, still looking at the handwritten lines. “Not only can I not manage you, I don’t want to anymore. You’ve been continually disrespectful and you’re utterly undeserving of me or my time.”

He steps back, pivoting to reach for the door, opening it and pushing it away from himself. It’s not as if he will _hold it_ open for Edward to exit. “I don’t care what becomes of you anymore. Get out!” he chokes out, voice broken. “I tried to be sympathetic, I gave this my best, and now I’m finished. Leave: never seek me out again and _never_ come back.” Oswald has a gun holster on under his jacket; if Ed tries to retaliate, Oswald will have every right to retaliate in return, should it come to that. He’s not afraid of being under a circumstance such as that.

What he is actively afraid of is what Ed is turning him into; specifically, what the _challenge_ of Ed’s near-constant presence is turning him _back_ into. This is reality, and Oswald has to face it, unlike how he won’t meet Ed’s eyes, the opposite of how that played out in his mind’s sick fantasy.

Ed’s shoulders lower. All the gravitas, all the excitement brewed from frustration seeps out of him faster than the spilled coffee can worm its way through the dropped sheets of lines. 

_What have I done?_

Oswald keeps his gaze firmly set on the floor, door open, outside a looming reality Ed doesn’t want to ever face alone. He shuffles on his feet in an attempt to delay his departure with hopes that Oswald will retract his words, to see the humor behind the action.

 _I will not be disrespectful. I will not be disrespectful._ Chin to chest, Ed reads the words, eyes catching the beginning of each line. The handwritten sentences are still decipherable, despite the dark ink dispersing outwards across the once white, crisp sheets. Black and white imagery blooms anew, further signifying the infection that Ed is, detailing the sickness that burns through his veins, as it travels the cyclic route back to his heart.

_I told you this wouldn’t work. I warned you._

Ed’s hands ball into fists and shake at his sides. For weeks he has been attempting to ignore the voice in his head whispering notions of failure, amongst almost enticing provocations of destruction. Ed doesn’t want to be that man, that _monster_. He wants control and stability, a steady foot on which to step forward; however, his legs may as well be as busted as Oswald’s knee, for control is something his hand cannot grasp. Anytime his alter ego surges and things become too bleak, Ed makes his way to his savior. Oswald was supposed to help, he _promised_ he would. _How did I destroy us so quickly?_ Ed’s eyes water in recognition of the feeling. A friendship lost, a relationship denied, as people rally one by one, ready to toss him aside like a broken, unwanted toy, buried at the bottom of a box, forever to be ignored.

_You should have listened to me. Your foray in the light has garnered you nothing but pain. Oswald hates you, he called you unworthy. He doesn’t want you to succeed._

A whimper escapes Ed’s throat. Would Oswald be so cruel as to sabotage his one chance at freedom from his retched existence? Has this been one long winded game to him, getting Ed’s hopes up, but never meeting him halfway? A ship without an anchor, a kite without a string. Oswald is severing their connection over a _joke_ , leaving Ed to float away alone, casting him back into the absolute depths of blackness and morbidity. _Why is he doing this?_

Oswald has yet to look up and Ed doesn’t blame him for _that_ , for why would someone want to stare into the face of a monster?

 _You know what we need to do._

Ed shakes his head back and forth, small strands of hair tousle against his forehead as he endeavors to rid himself of the voice which has been growing in strength over the past few weeks _._

_We need…to make them see that you are not someone to be trifled with, someone to ignore._

A foreboding laugh echoes in his mind and Ed squeezes his eyes shut. Black bleeds into red as his fingers twitch and seize. He wants to reach out for Oswald, to drop to his knees and beg him to reconsider. Would Oswald attack him again? Would that bring forgiveness as it had before? Ed would accept the hits, the punishment for his actions if it allows him to remain in Oswald’s presence. As worthless as Ed is, as hopeless and undeserving as Oswald says, Ed doesn’t want to accept that their chapter has ended.

“Oswald, ple—”

“Out, Edward!” Oswald bellows and Ed can do little more but obey. With downcast eyes and the back of his hand pressed to his mouth, Ed flees the precinct, leaving the tattered remnants of his psyche behind.

~~~

From her place on the balcony, Fish ignores the officer talking to her in favor for watching the man who is undoubtedly the Riddler flee from the precinct, on the verge of tears. With pinched brows, she waits a few seconds—the officer’s words register as a low murmur in her ears—to see if Oswald is in pursuit, but as time soon dictates, the man is nowhere to be found. _What have you done now, Oswald?_

Raising a hand, she cuts off whatever mindless drivel Officer Brown is spilling and silences him with a stare. “Go find Zsasz. He’d love to hear about…” she trails off with a flick of her wrist, lost in slight confusion, having not been paying attention.

“The man I found was rifling through our desks,” Brown says, picking up the tail end of her sentence.

“Yes, that. Tell Zsasz about it.”

Generally, Fish is not so curt with those under her employment; she often makes time to listen to their concerns, amongst other things, but these past few weeks have had her increasingly agitated. Observing the subtle changes in Oswald’s demeanor has been worrisome. She had put it down to anger over his injury at first, however the posturing and offhanded temper, the way he barely restrained himself from voicing his anger—it is telling behavior. This isn’t some belated reaction. Fish held hopes that Oswald would snap out of it, yet as the weeks progressed, she was forced to face her greatest worry. Oswald is reverting before her very eyes, becoming the man she once saved from what would have been a rather short life of crime, should he have remained on that path.

Heels clicking, Fish marches her way through the department to begin her search for Oswald. The interrogation room fails to produce results. It is empty, bar the spill of coffee-stained notes submerged in a puddle. Fish’s gaze narrows on the table, center room. She finds it hard to believe that the man she met sitting atop of it is the same individual responsible for creating havoc on her streets. How had _he_ managed to kidnap Oswald from under her nose, when he barely seems capable of taking care of himself?

Despite her better judgement, Fish unearths a feeling of concern for the Riddler. For someone as menacing as him to obey the instructions of a hostile file clerk signifies that he _wants_ to change, that he is desperate for it. _Surely_ Oswald can see that, or is he too far gone to care about anyone other than himself? _The overzealous, self-ambitious fool_. No matter what his predicament is, Fish will not let this issue go unaddressed any longer. It is high time she confronts Oswald to assess the damage done to his mindset.

Snatching up the papers, Fish seals the door closed and makes her way to the file room. Her long legs carry her there in a matter of seconds and with a turn of her head, she observes Oswald sitting stationary at his desk; shoulders tense, hands clenched and a glower permanently etched into his features. She swipes her tongue over her teeth, sucking lightly, and stalks forward, slamming the papers down before him in one swift motion.

As Oswald startles and throws back his chin with a glare, Fish lifts a single finger and _tsks_ out a warning. He knows better than to attempt any semblance of a challenge as past escapades haven’t favored him in the slightest. _Don’t test me, boy._

“So, first, you make the Riddler write lines, then you send him rushing out of the building with tears in his eyes. I am not sure if I should be proud or exasperated.” Fish cocks a brow as she peers down her nose at Oswald. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I _thought_ the plan was to rehabilitate him.”

“I’m done with him,” Oswald responds, scowling, looking straight ahead, avoiding Fish’s eyes. He lifts the trash can next to his desk and transfers the sopping pile of papers into it. Everything underneath it reeks of coffee now and is stained. He can barely bring himself to care, though it is a further disappointment. “Admittedly, the lines were out of desperation. I should have simply ended it before assigning him that task.” Oswald bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth. “If I was you—that is to say, my advice to you regarding the matter is—don’t pressure yourself to feel either way about it. What is done is done.”

Placing the trash bin back in place, Oswald rubs at his face, pushing his hair through his fingers without concern for what he’ll do to his styling. He smacks his mouth open and digs his palms into his eyes.

_Edward left in tears…fantastic._

Oswald tries to convince himself that what is bothering him is the shame of knowing people _saw_ , but even he knows the sick heat in his throat that makes him want to cry himself is because it’s terrible to have confirmation that Ed’s defiance was some kind of _nonsense_ on the man’s part, and not the carefully plotted attack on Oswald’s dignity and patience he took it as.

_He’s not the only one of us who can dish it out, but can’t take it, is he?_

It changes nothing, however. Oswald couldn’t maintain his “relationship” with Ed any longer. The end of the line had been approaching since the start. Trying to circumvent it only led Oswald in circles, dizzying him and blurring his own life.

“I should never have agreed to help him,” Oswald admits in a hushed tone. Fish taps her nails on his desk, waiting for him to elaborate. _Please, just leave me alone_ , he wants to ask, but knows it will do him no good.

Sighing, Oswald sags in his chair. “You offered to give me some time off work, after my injury.” They both know he didn’t take it; he didn’t stay in the hospital as long as he was supposed to, either—didn’t even attend a single PT session. He wanted—no, _needed_ to return to work; disregarding his well-being wasn’t a new lifestyle choice for Oswald in the slightest. _Weeks_ of Edward nagging him about his leg flood Oswald’s mind, echoing and overlapping as he recalls his ire rising, reactions ranging from politely dissuading Edward’s focus, to firmly telling him to cease his fussing, to resorting to screaming at the man out of rage and irritation, because it’s as if _nothing_ Oswald says ever resonates with Edward.

 _At least he stopped touching me_ ; Oswald can give him that.

“Is it too late for me to request a respite? I…” Oswald falters in explaining to Fish what’s going on. Bracing an elbow on the desk, Oswald buries his face in his hand, digging at his scalp with his blunt fingernails. “I’m not myself lately, I—”

Fish leans against his desk slowly, balancing herself on her arms, extended behind her, after she looks back and finds places that aren’t covered in coffee to place her hands.

“Now that I don’t have to deal with Riddler anymore,” _and his unpredictable ‘visits’ and incessant need to dote and be doted on and exhausting moral debates and wordplays and perplexing, passive means of expressing himself and the gifts of all manner of drugs to alleviate Oswald’s pain, because what the doctors prescribed him doesn’t work and the meals and the maniacal laughter and—_ ”I may be able to sleep at night again. It would be a relief if I could be left alone long enough to rest.”

Fish nods, sweeping an open palm in front of Oswald, a non-verbal reminder of her promise that whatever he needed in his recovery, she would provide. Oswald closes his eyes and nods back, appreciative.

Spinning his chair, Oswald reaches for his cane, beginning the process of hauling himself upright. If he lets on to anyone how much _pain_ he is in…well, he doesn’t know what would happen, but he doesn’t want anyone’s pity. It’s bad enough Edward notices _everything_ ; Oswald can’t hide anything from him.

_Stop thinking about him! He isn’t part of your life anymore!_

“Oswald—” Fish’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “You haven’t been dismissed. Are you going to answer my question first?” It wasn’t an inquiry, but an order.

He pulls his jacket down by the lapels, resting his cane back against his desk again, the sharp handle wobbling as the weight of it balances itself out. Fish bought it for him—he found it at one of his favorite stores, a place he couldn’t normally afford anything at. It resembled a beak; Oswald liked birds and appreciated the design. She bought him a new suit to replace the one that had been damaged beyond repair in the attack, as well: she’d caught Oswald admiring the cane when he found it in the corner of the shop.

All kindness he didn’t deserve, especially in light of what he’d almost done to Edward.

“I almost broke his _pretty_ little jaw,” Oswald breathes, still avoiding facing Fish. The fewer people he has to make eye contact with today, the better. “I’m at the end of my rope. I don’t recognize myself anymore. It feels as if there’s nothing left to me but being in constant physical agony and having to _babysit_ him does nothing but make me wearier.” Oswald swallows down the majority of the words he wants to say, scared of what’s already come out. He doesn’t _talk_ like that. An apropos question Oswald has heard too many times in recent weeks resurfaces: _What am I?_

“It’s as if he knows exactly where to slide the knife, the perfect places to get under my skin—the exact words, _disrespect_ and flippancy needed to show me he thinks as little of me as all the people who have tried to control me, _use me_ , have.”

Desperation gaining him the bravery, somehow, to finally face his own mentor, Oswald turns and meets Fish’s eyes. “The darkest parts of myself said to break him back. Reminded me I know how.” His eyes water as he explains to her in his quietest voice, as as not to be overheard, but still seething in tone. “I’m not going to resort to that, that _base violence_ is always unnecessary.”

_You taught me that, Fish._

“Once it reached that point, I knew it was time to send him away, so, no, I’m not responsible for his rehabilitation anymore.” Laughing sardonically, Oswald grabs his cane. “May my successor, whoever they be, have grace I don’t possess to manage…whatever you want to consider him.”

Fish stands tall, using every inch of height available to her and slaps a hand to Oswald’s chest, halting his retreat. The action results in a reconnection of their gazes and Fish softens internally at the tears brewing in Oswald’s eyes. He should have came and spoken with her sooner and relayed all his worries if he was feeling this disconnected. Despite the years that have passed, and how well he _was_ doing, she is still his mentor. Time does little to erase that fact.

“Oswald,” she says, elongating his name with her signature drawl, “has it occurred to you that he may not find another guide, that his attempts at securing himself a brighter future have failed. He’s not like you—” (That much was obvious, Oswald would _never_ have sat on a desk and wrote lines simple because Fish told him to. Their respective _journey_ was more a battle, resulting in fighting tooth and nail, literally on some occasions. Over time the fire in Oswald dulled to coals…then along came the Riddler, who knowingly or not, stoked them, reigniting the flame.

“He _asked_ for help,” Fish says, finishing her thought. “I had to make sure you opened your eyes wide enough to realize that you _needed_ it.”

 _And you still need it._ Fish keeps that thought to herself. Oswald is on edge, lost with the mammoth task he has both assigned himself and forcibly retracted. _This_ is why she never wanted him to take on the position in the first place. Not only was she concerned that the Riddler was manipulating Oswald into this—which, with the way he fled the building moments ago, it appears as though he is not—she had to contend with the similarities between the two men. An amalgamation of oil and vinegar; two separate substances only requiring the slightest jostle in order to blend, albeit temporarily.

“While you stand here, contemplating all your personal issues, and I’m not— _Oswald_ , let me speak—I’m not saying that they are unjustified, but you have failed, yes, _failed_ ,” Fish accentuates with a prod to his chest, “to recall the talk we had in the hospital. You are responsible for him, you accepted the role as mentor and guide, he is not something you can ignore.”

Oswald shakes his head, mouth moving spilling sounds Fish can’t decipher but she understands every concern. “I _know_ it’s changing you,” she moves her hand off his chest to cup his cheek, voice softening with the gentle act, “and after all you have endured, this has to be frightening. Your past is irreversible and your days will have struggles, no matter how much time has elapsed. So stop keeping them to yourself,” Fish gives a tap to Oswald’s face and the action unseats the tears he had been struggling to keep bay. Yet again Fish is reminded of the man who once dropped to her feet, tears falling as he accepted the assistance she offered. “We can start meeting again daily if it will help. You aren’t alone in this, Oswald, as much as you believe you may be.”

Sighing, Fish cards her fingers through Oswald’s hair, before resorting to fixing the mess he has made of himself. She fiddles with the strands, crisscrossing them, then pinches his chin. Tilting his head she raises a brow and licks her lips as her mind forms with thoughts that may re-center Oswald’s ambitious streak in another direction. “What happened to never backing down?” she asks, “when did you stop seeing the man you held at knifepoint, because that boy you chased out of here, is feeling as lost as you once were.”

Fish finishes with Oswald’s hair and he wants to sweep her into a hug so badly he is driven silent by the weight of love and respect he has for her. Motherly affection is the last thing Oswald likely deserves right now, but it’s the thing he needs the most, and he’s grateful all over again to have her as a guide, as a friend. As family.

Oswald shudders with the force of the profound sadness that hits him when she references the knife. It was easy to forget about that day now that Ed works hard enough to be a _pest_ day in, day out, keeping Oswald irritable, always caught, since that fateful morning, between the difference in the sharp extremes of how Edward behaves. That was part of what was driving Oswald damn near _insane_ while mentoring Ed: seeing that the darkness in the Riddler is the same as whatever long-before abandoned _thing_ dwells in Oswald; that the lost, hopeless, almost underdeveloped and immature behavior they both exhibit when faced with circumstances they have no experience in handling is _also_ the same means they _are_ the same man on some level. Finding someone similar to himself was something Oswald always thought would be a joyous life experience, should it come to pass. Instead, it's far from simple. 

Oswald turns to the darkness in himself when he feels powerless, attacked, disrespected; Edward turns to his own version for his own reasons, reasons Oswald is still learning. Maybe to not feel worthless, to get attention for being bad than receive no attention from the outside world at all.

And that had been how he’d come to see Ed, obnoxiously obsessive, needy, irritating, making Oswald spend hours a day dealing with his issues, his _riddles_ , his schemes and dilemmas—usually presented together, bogglingly enough. The number of breakdowns he’d witnessed Edward have, sitting on the floor or locking himself in the bathroom, _had_ to have been rivaling the number of times Oswald had sat, locked in one of the cells in the very same police department he now works in, either refusing to speak to Fish or hurling obscenities and threats at her. 

Unlike Oswald’s outward rages, Ed just sits on the floor and screams at himself. Oswald thought it was at _him_ at first, things like “Shut up!” and “Don’t say that!” but Ed insists every time he isn’t talking to Oswald. It became clear that he was shouting at himself when Oswald caught the distant look in his eyes when he did it once, Oswald lowering himself to the floor to check on Ed when he crumpled to the floor, sweating and delirious.

He thinks about Edward chewing on his own fingers, always licking his own lips ( _so_ annoying and grating to watch, for some reason), the way he shuffles in place when he doesn’t know where to stand or where to run to when he figures out he isn’t supposed to be where he is…Oswald’s become so frustrated with having Ed demand he help _de-program_ the Riddler that Oswald’s forgotten he is _Edward_ underneath it all. Edward, always asking Oswald to please let him make him dinner, asking Oswald to please stop hitting his own leg when he’s in pain, asking Oswald to please let him come over so he doesn’t have to be alone, asking Oswald to please solve his puzzles, solve _him_ , asking Oswald to please kill him that morning when he’d laid his neck down across that knife.

It hits Oswald all at once that he _understands_ Ed; he _knows_ him at this rate: maybe not how his mind works, or how to predict his actions (that, Oswald is sure, he will never learn) but there’s something he intrinsically can perceive about the man that he’s not sure anyone else can, let alone Edward himself. The weight of that knowledge, the finality behind why fate has drawn them together, might awe Oswald in better circumstances, but it only leaves him feeling overwhelmed with responsibility to have to protect someone from themselves, who can’t even value Oswald enough to give him a day off or some space.

“How did you ever deal with me?” Oswald asks, laughing sadly, blinking back the water in his eyes. He’s so tired of crying….

“When I think about the things I did to you, well…I felt enough regret already, but understanding how _exhausting_ this is…” he laughs again, grimacing. “I wasn’t even worth your hassles, yet you still saved me.” Fish starts to interject and Oswald cuts back in first. “I’m not questioning why, not anymore. What I am saying is…whatever help he needs, I’ve now proved I can’t provide.”

Oswald sniffs and tries to stand straight again, frowning. “So, I’ve doomed myself to failure, to quitting, which you know I hate, and to the guilt of knowing that I probably just made one of the city’s oddest criminals a terroristic threat because I’ve hurt his _feelings_. You’re right, he’s not going to try this again. Heroism takes a certain level of constant self-sacrifice, but as we both know, I’m no hero. And I have nothing left to give.” 

Fish wouldn’t give up; Oswald couldn’t fathom of it, couldn’t think of a time she _had_ , but he wasn’t as powerful as her. That much was clear.

Looking at his shoes, the crooked way he has to stand now to try to take pressure off his leg, Oswald rubs at his brows. “I can’t imagine what would have happened to me if you’d given up on me,” he whispers, chin to his chest. “You’re right, I should have come to you sooner. I would rather talk to you every day than Riddler. I’m prioritizing the wrong thing too late.” The side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s typical for me, isn’t it?”

Oswald watches one of the exits, as someone leaves the GCPD. He sighs. “I keep expecting to see him come back in here. I apologize for hiding that from you, too, I—I didn’t want to burden you with the ethical quandary of having him in here. He’s been showing up here for a while now, unconcerned with how _stressful_ of a situation that puts me in. I can’t…” Oswald’s shoulders sag with the miserable realization Fish’s words about responsibility have given him. “I can’t get him out of my head,” he confesses, spiraling fast, eyes wide. “I _know_ I can’t ignore him, but…I don’t know what to do, Fish. I don’t know what to do.”

Without thought, Fish steps forward and envelops Oswald in a hug as the broken sounds prove too much for her to bare. She tightens her hold over the tops of his arms, which hang listlessly at his sides and she drops her head to rest against his. “That right there, Oswald,” she begins softly, whispering into his hairline, “ _that_ is the reason you cannot give up; neither on yourself or the Riddler. He’s in your head and whether the connection is severed or not, he will remain there. It won’t fade away just because you will it to.”

At the sound of a choked back sob, Fish pinches the bridge of her nose and cuts short a sigh. She understands that this task is difficult for Oswald to grasp. It requires a certain level of mental fortitude, a strong will and unbreakable spirit in order to remain steadfast in the face of this life-changing decision. Oswald has these things, but they weaken when the endless questioning, the complexities and the foray of hopelessness override and confound him. He is struggling all because of the Riddler and for the first time Fish is unclear on how to assist him.

Hand dropping and chin lifting with thought, she realizes that this might be _exactly_ what Oswald needs to hear. There were times in the beginning when Fish was certain all her attempts were going to be for naught. That, _although_ she may have appeared confident, having carefully constructed a plan for each and every eventuality, this wasn’t the case. She didn’t have a single clue what she was doing, but she had the means to assist having been through it all herself.

It was with naive hopes that Fish believed this mentorship might have proved fruitful for Oswald, that by having a task, one he could deeply relate too, would solidify his current standings but the reality was that the Riddler is dragging him down. The villain is unstable, the man beneath the mask even moreso. It would be easy to place all the blame on him for reverting Oswald’s progress, but at the same time she cannot ignore someone who so desperately seeks help. The Riddler has managed to realize this on his own (just as she did), whereas Oswald had to been shown another path, almost goaded into it between cheese toasties, physical attacks and repetitive talks.

“I don’t have the answers you seek,” Fish reveals as she withdraws from the embrace and begins swiping Oswald’s tears away with a flick of her fingers. “I wish I had more words of wisdom to share, something that would help you resolve your battles, but I don’t. All I know is that there is a scared, broken man out there and then there is you.” Fish purses her lips as she reads the steady stream of questions in Oswald’s eyes. They brew in the form of tears, each falling before it can be voiced. With resolve, she clasps a hand to his arm and escorts him to his chair; once settled, she perches herself on the edge of his desk.

“Think on it this way, Oswald. Have you ever heard of an AA sponsor following around their charge waiting for the chance to hit a bottle out of their hands in order to save them from a relapse? _No,_ because that is something they must do for themselves. You are not here to reconstruct the mess that boy has made of himself; you are here to support him, to listen to him, to help. _If_ that is something you still wish to do.”

With that, Fish drops to her feet, and straightens as she smooths out the wrinkles in her clothes. Oswald needs time to ponder his path alone for this is something he must decide for himself, no matter where it may lead him. “Whatever decision you make, I will support you,” she says as she cups his cheek, thumb tenderly stroking back and forth, “if you chose to remain by his side, I will be here to save you from falling. This has been my promise to you for many years.”

Oswald reaches for Fish’s hand and gives it a quick squeeze. “Thank you, Fish,” he says, feeling calmer than he can remember having felt in as many weeks. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and flicks it open. It’s a replacement for his last phone, and he barely uses it outside of getting texts and calls from Ed. It’s finally time to make an outgoing call. 

“I…I need to think about what to say first,” he realizes, putting the phone down on the desk. He grabs the now dried and stained newspaper he’d had on top of his desk and chucks it into the trash, his eyes catching the handwritten sheets before they’re covered up. All this over those. Why had he allowed himself to be so rash? He should have gone to Fish first, he shouldn’t have expected dealing with Ed to get simpler on its own, instead of reaching out for help. 

“You and I both have a lot to do today, I’m sure,” he offers, gripping the desk with his fingers. “I really do need some time off, I think. I’ll finish up here and then head home after I…after I…deal with this. Can I come see you tomorrow to talk more?”

Fish nods and fixes another strand of Oswald’s fringe. She quirks her mouth into a moue as she contemplates Oswald, knowing that there’s still so much unspoken, but both of them seem unable to tread upon it yet.

The phone sits on Oswald’s desk as he returns to his daily tasks; he closes it after twenty minutes to save on battery life, but leaves it sitting on his desk, intending to duck out back and try to get in touch with Edward. An hour later, and he still means to get to it, but the words he wants to speak haven’t formed yet. 

Nearing the end of Oswald’s day, it goes back in his coat pocket, still unused. 

Oswald thinks about Ed crying, what a sad display it is when it happens, how he curls in on himself, as if it’s possible to origami-fold himself into a new shape.

Oswald also thinks about the vivid display his mind supplied him with before, blood flying out of Edward’s mouth with each blow, the rage Oswald felt when he believed the last of his control both slipped from and was pulled from his hands.

Even though he doesn’t want to hurt Ed (and he hates himself deeply on an inner level for even considering it subconsciously), the fact that he thought about it isn’t hard to figure out; the anger is still there, that Edward would see how far he could _push_ him just to test him, like he’s one of the man’s science experiments…if Oswald doesn’t let himself burn through his temper first, he won’t even _want_ to speak to Ed.

And so he sits, fiddling with it, pushing the phone around the table in circles by flicking the antenna, processing his options, when it lights up and his ringtone goes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oswald's kinda losing it, huh? A lot is gonna go down next chapter that makes him finally start to settle into the bird we're more used to. We'll see what poor Ed is up to, as well!
> 
> Thank you for reading and talking with us in the comments about your reactions; we love to hear what you guys think! Next chapter is going to have the return of some of the characters mentioned in chapter one, along with some new ones and with further development of the idiot boys at the center of this fic—we'll have it up soon and we're excited to share. Thank you again!


	5. Changing Circumstances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed struggles to get a grip on his mental state after being sent away. Oswald realises the error of his actions and seeks to make amends, however before reconciliation can occur, Oswald gets accosted by people he had hoped long since forgotten about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this chapter follows the events of the last beginning with Ed's mental breakdown, and includes self harm in the form of shattering a mirror with fists. If you wish to skip this part, look for the three little ~~~ lines and all will be well.
> 
> On a happier note, there is the reintroduction of characters we met briefly in chapter one as well as the arrival of few new ones too.
> 
> Happy reading!

Ed fists his hands in his hair and winces as he pulls the strands taut. The pain does little to silence his mirror-self’s laugh, sounding both from inside his mind and the reflective surface in the bathroom, echoing with a metallic static. The ever-present taunting has been growing louder since he was dismissed by Oswald and quite literally shown the door. Ed paces back and forth across the length of the room, wondering when it was he had even arrived home. He can’t remember, mind too torn to perceive little more than his own internal battle, ignoring any and all external stimulus as he fought to remain in control.

A whimper of hopelessness sounds from his throat, as his fists bash his temples in a desperate attempt to find something to ground him. Oswald was supposed to be his anchor, but the link has been retracted, leaving Ed to topple through stormy seas alone.

Why did Oswald do this? Why end it now? Just when Ed finds comfort in his new direction, it is ripped clean from his outstretched hands. Twenty-seven days is all it took for Oswald to give up on him, not even allowing Ed the chance to apologize or explain himself. Twenty-seven days forward, now kicked back, doors slammed and bolted. Oswald is revoking any progress Ed has made, however miniscule it may be.

_You dimwit, isn’t it obvious to you now? Oswald doesn’t care!_

Head bowed, Ed keeps his eyes downcast, preferring to stare at the blurring tiles beneath his feet. He doesn’t want to peer into the mirror; he’d rather avoid witnessing how truly damaged he is.

“O-Oswald, he doesn’t understand. He—”

_Any brainless fool can see that he doesn’t want to. If he did, you wouldn’t be the shriveling mess you are now._

“No no, he said he’d help,” Ed argues, not wanting to face the truth so blatantly conveyed by both Oswald and his alter-ego. Why were they both working against him so vehemently?

_And then he tossed you aside like common trash. What does that tell you?_

Ed halts in his tracks, feeling sick to his stomach. What _did_ that tell him? _That I’m a loss cause, forever unworthy of having someone to care about me. That I’m but a bug on the pavement, waiting to be squashed._ Every self-deprecating thought Ed has ever had rises, forcing tears down his cheeks, as a broken sob worms free. It is all so obvious now, why he could never retain relationships or friends and although he has Kristen in his life, that began because she was in need of _assistance_. It wasn’t about him: it never was. He was only a convenience. A tool to be manipulated like any wrench or hammer. Minimal handling required.

The odds had been tipped to fail before he even began. Ed collapses to the tiled floor and cries. For a snapshot in time, the omnipresent voice in his head falls silent. Then the tides turn….

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” Ed wails, face pressed in a puddle of his own tears. “I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t ask for you. I want Oswald, I want to be good.”

_You’re pathetic._

That is one comment Ed can’t argue against. He knows how contemptible he is, how deplorable. Scum, dirt, grime—even the mould that grows between his tiles has more worth than him and although these things can be cleaned, Ed’s soul is decaying with rust no solvent can halt, let alone revert.

_Take one good look at yourself and you’ll see why I’m doing this. It’s for your own good. This dalliance with Oswald was lucky not to end in flames…or with him dead._

“I—I would never hurt Oswald,” Ed stutters as he scrambled to his feet and makes for the mirror, holding a trembling finger in his alter-ego’s face, “and don’t you—”

_Hey, you said it, not me._

“I didn’t. That—that’s not what I was implying. You…you’re—”

 _Relax,_ the apparition drawls with a roll of his eyes. _So Oswald is off the cards. That doesn’t mean we can’t go have some fun! We did have a pretty grand outing the last time, if I do say so myself._

Flashes of past escapades flicker across Ed’s vision. No matter how hard he squeezes his eyes shut, or smacks himself on the forehead, he can’t shake them. The inevitable end of his cruelty, the horrific standard he could reach, every twisted tale teases and taunts him. _It’s not me_ , he wants to shout, yet he can still feel the warmth of the blood that once thickly coated his hands. Try as he might to separate himself from the megalomaniac within, Ed is struggling with the foray. He knows recovery and remaking himself was going to be difficult, a near mountainous challenge, but having to fight through the diseased urges are unbeatable alone. He needs Oswald.

_Stop denying who you are, who we are._

“I’m _nothing_ like you,” Ed spits, but the verbal attack has little effect. His imperfectious image reacts only in malicic humor, with hands pressed on the opposite side of the mirror, feeling his way for a point of exit.

_You’re exactly like me and you know it. It’s why you’re running scared, afraid of your own damn shadow. You know where fate is leading you because you’ve already dabbled in it. I’m your future, baby. Embrace it!_

“No! I can’t, I won’t.” There’s no telling what that monster would do when he breaks free of his shackles. The last instance was only the tip of the iceberg and that resulted in no less than four corpses. If the pinnacle could be so catastrophic, wherein lies the depths of his destruction? How much is brewing under the surface? What will become of Ed when he loses his control?

There’s nothing jovial to find there, only utter decimation of who he is, or who he thinks he is. Ed is fed up with feeling lost, tired of traipsing the ever changing maze, looking for a point of exit. He thought he found that in Oswald, that his respite was just in reach, but now he is drowning in solitude, with only his fears and demons to keep him company.

_I’m all you’ve got left now and I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon._

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Ed screams as his fist pounds into the mirror, each hit creating microfractures until the panel splits into jagged lines and his knuckles bleed.

Hands bloody, he collapses and curls in on himself as his body shakes out a violent storm. He can’t let this happen again. The beast is surging and rattling his chains. The links won’t hold forever; they may as well be made of plastic. Ed pulls out his phone, hands shaking so bad that the screen blurs before him.

 _Please pick up. Please pick up,_ Ed thinks as he selects Oswald’s number, wishing the dial tone was loud enough to drown out his thoughts. He knows he shouldn’t be calling him, but it’s either Oswald or the darkness—the choice is unquestionable.

~~~

With enough carefully-timed flicks of his finger, Oswald’s gotten his phone to spin around in a neat circle, the battery pack on the back acting as the end of the spinning top toy Oswald’s turned the device into while he sits in place, face planted in his palm, leaning on the desk.

When the phone starts to ring, display screen glowing blue, Oswald fumbles when he tries to pick it up and almost ends up sending it flying across the floor.

With some awkwardness, and most of the people around him noticing, he retrieves it and pries it open, already fully aware of who is calling.

“Ed?”

Oswald is met with silence.

“Ed, are…are you there?”

A shuddering breath is all that comes through the line. Oswald looks around at his desk mates and grabs his cane, scrambling to get somewhere more private. The archives room is still an off-limits mess (it’s why his temporary desk is outside); if Tabitha, Dr. Hugo, and the rest of the medical staff are not around, maybe he can sneak into the lab…he heads there to see, while he works on trying to get Ed to answer him still.

“Ed, answer me,” Oswald pleads, closing the door behind him quietly as he sneaks into the medical facilities on site. “Where are you?” he barks, immediately biting his lip and rolling his eyes at his own ineptitude.

_The goal is to express remorse and show regret, imbecile!_

Oswald grinds his teeth and tries again.

“Edward, please—speak to me.”

Leaning against the door, his back pressed into glass and wood, Oswald bends his head down, trying to chase the muffled sounds coming from Ed’s end of the call. All the capacity for empathy Oswald somehow disregarded in his rage returns, a wave of guilt washing over him as he wonders what Ed could possibly be feeling right now, if Oswald were in his shoes.

“Please,” he just about whines, holding back his tears. It’s time to stop those, stop feeling sorry for himself, and stand fast for what he believes in—it’s time to stop trying to give in to failure and take action instead.

“I forgive you,” he says in a soft tone, and he means it, even with no apology offered. The fact that Ed would risk further angering Oswald to reach out instead is already an apology; Oswald can see that.

“I’m sorry, too; please don’t do anything rash, like I have,” he rubs his fingers into the wood behind his hand, digging his nails into the grooves, desperate to hold something in the absence of physical contact. “Please say something,” he asks again, closing his eyes in desperation, hoping to will Ed’s voice into being.

“O-Oswald,” Ed croaks out over a cry of relief, scarcely believing that luck has fallen in his favor for once. He flops onto his back, legs bent at odd angles, and stares at the ceiling as tears seep out the corners of his eyes. Oswald answered, he didn’t abandon him, the voice was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Ed says, unable to catch his breath over his blubbering. “I didn’t mean…I don’t want, a-and he said—” Ed tenses with a wince, tongue failing him, yet his mind spins with several different apologies. He’s sorry for not being good, sorry for not being respectful, sorry for letting Oswald down. Ed’s eyes flick to the fractured mirror and his stomach heaves because it’s still not empty, but, thankfully, it is silent. He hauls himself to his hands and knees and crawls out of the bathroom, cradling the phone delicately in a bloodied fist. When he reaches the center of the living room he lets himself fall back to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“Ed, Ed— _shh_ , it’s alright. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have escalated things to that point.”

Ed’s still blubbering and Oswald sags with relief that he’s at least responding now. When hours before he wanted to strike Ed, now he wishes he could reach out and comfort him. Hopefully reconciliation for the both of them is possible.

“Where are you, Ed? Your apartment?” _Please let him not have harmed himself…_ ”I’m still at the GCPD. Will you meet with me, so we can discuss everything in person? I have…much I need to say, and you know I’m not good at talking over the phone.” At least Ed had called him instead of texted him—that would’ve only lead to Oswald making the situation worse, that was almost a certainty.

“We can get coffee,” Oswald offers, about to laugh with irony. He keeps smiling despite himself. “The usual place? My treat?”

“You want _see_ m-me?” Ed slips his fingers beneath his glasses and wipes away tears, aware on some level that he is spreading blood across his face. In his emotionally and mentally crippled state, he cannot find the energy to care about cleanliness; he can scarcely believe the information his ears are relaying him. Oswald wants to go for coffee? It’s a benign thought, if not for the way he reacted earlier over the very same thing.

“You’re—this is real? You didn’t give up on me?” Lifting a hand, Ed tugs at his hair, hoping to hold steadfast to his reality and not his delusions. What if this is only a fabrication, another game his alter-ego is playing on him? Ed wants this to be fact, not fiction. He doesn’t want to fall even further than he has. Pressing the phone into his face in a half-hearted attempt to bring Oswald closer, Ed cries, “Please tell me you’re real.”

Oswald furrows his brow. “Of course I’m _real_ , Ed, why—” he wants to ask why he’s _asking_ that…and then he sees all of Ed’s bizarre mental lapses in a new light.

“Ed…do you…are you…” Oswald transfers himself to a nearby chair, lowering himself down slowly. Maybe talking about this on the phone isn’t a good idea. (Maybe talking about it at all isn’t, but it feels overdue.)

“Of course I want to see you, I’m…again, Ed, I apologize. I lost my temper,” he speaks softly, eyes closed. “It was wrong of me to say what I did, to send you away. I’m not a very good person, and I’m far from kind. I keep telling you this.” It’s not a question and yet he feels he’s imploring, with complete earnestness, for Ed to listen.

Oswald rubs at his knee, pulling his pants’ leg down, gripping the material in his hand. Never has he used Edward’s shorten name so much, or called him by name so much, yet it keeps flowing out of him in the midst of his concern. Ed. Ed. _Ed_.

“No no no, don’t say that. You are good, you _are_.” Ed wishes Oswald would see himself as he does. To say that Oswald isn’t _good_ further portrays Ed’s wickedness. Oswald isn’t the one being controlled by his internal puppet master, forced to kill people, slaughter them like animals, as if they were nothing more than the threads on a sweater, waiting to be snagged and ripped apart. Oswald is everything Ed isn’t.

“You’re just moody.” With that comment Ed laughs dejectedly, ending it with a wet sniffle. “People, they always get mad with me, they don’t like me and I know, I _know_ …and they don’t—” Ed tears off his glasses and tosses them across the room; with the obstruction gone, he runs his digits across his face, pressing firmly into every groove, tracing his bones and pinching his skin.

“I’m trying, Oswald. I t-try _so_ _hard_ and nothing works.” Lifting his head, Ed drops it back, wincing as it meets the hardwood floor. “Nothing ever works,” he says, finding it surprisingly easy to open up to Oswald despite his breakdown.

“I—” he pauses to lick his lips, and swipe at his eyes, “I don’t want to be like this.”

“Well, part of that is the fact that you’re an annoying brat,” Oswald rolls his eyes and contorts his face. “Which is intentional—oh, don’t try to deny it—therefore, I can’t see you changing _that_ aspect of yourself.” He laughs sourly, then falters when he realizes, based on prior experience (with similar comments), that Ed might misunderstand. “I’m teasing you back. I hope you know that.”

Digging his upper lip with his teeth, Oswald struggles to find the words to give Ed, the words he so clearly seeks. “I don’t know how to get what I want without being cruel. That, or lying. The latter is something I chose to cease relying on. What you desire is possible.”

Oswald taps his toes off the linoleum. What he’s about to admit requires an effort of vulnerability and self-awareness Oswald doesn’t _want_ to exert, but needs must. He throws his head backwards, neck across the back of the chair’s headrest.

“I like you,” he confesses, looking at the frosted window behind him, now upside down. His eyes cross in resignation over stating the fact he’s been trying to suppress. “Yes, you try too hard to do things no one asked you to, and you _don’t_ do what people _do_ ask, and—” he exhales loudly, too exasperated to even groan.

“There’s avenues you can take to improve how you relate to others, and yes, I know you’re trying, which I commend, but I must confess I realized I would miss your peculiarities after I—well, you know.”

 _That’s not true—I only realized it speaking to you right now_.

Oswald stares at a misaligned tile in the ceiling and lets his eyes unfocus again. This conversation feels debasing; hopefully, it is at least beneficial. “Your defiance matches my volatility. Not always a pleasant clash, but…I catch myself enjoying it. So, don’t change too much.”

Ed giggles, or perhaps it was more of a chortle—he doesn’t know, nor does he care. Oswald’s admissions, however offhanded or earnest they may be, make him laugh, and what a welcome relief it is too feel joy again. The sound is wet; his tears of despair transform as Ed holds the phone to his ear. Oswald _likes_ him. Ed drops a hand to his stomach, clutching the fabric of his clothes as he rolls on his side. This isn’t what he expected to hear, not after what transpired between them earlier. How has Oswald’s opinion of him changed so drastically in mere hours?

“You’re a puzzle, Oswald,” Ed says with a whine as he struggles to get his laughter under control. “You…however am I supposed to keep up with—” He trails off with a wave of his hand, flapping it about uselessly, as though he could pluck the answers from thin air. It is doubtful he will find all the pieces he needs to construct even a mere _notion_ of the complexity that is Oswald. He should probably give up trying, but where is the fun in that?

“So, you mentioned coffee?” Ed asks in a hopeful tone, as he shuffles into a sitting position.

~~~

There has to be a reason why this keeps happening to Oswald, and whatever the reason is, he wishes he knew what it _is_ only so he can make it _stop_.

That’s what goes through his mind while he’s pinned against the brick wall in a side alley, by a man with a familiar face he’s been hoping to never see again. In all the chaos of that fateful day, where his leg had been injured and he’d saved Edward’s literal partner-in-crime, the man who stepped out of the gang attacking Oswald’s workplace (with the intention of putting a bullet in Oswald’s head) had managed to become one of the many facets of that day Oswald had almost _forgotten_ about. Assuming he’d only ended up on the side of the gun barrel he had because he’d been an easy target, Oswald assumed he’d escaped the fate of being killed by some thug named James Gordon, only because destiny had something else in store for him, namely, someone _else_ who was going to _riddle_ his life with problems of an entirely different sort.

How he was supposed to know the thug of a man was still tailing him _all this time_? Oswald had been a little _preoccupied_ with dealing with the _other_ man he “met” that day, who had chosen to _abscond_ with Oswald, instead of killing him, dragging him away when he was unconscious, to be tossed onto the stage, in the starring role, of what was the beginning of the now-most stressful responsibility in Oswald’s life.

(And oh, the _conversations_ they have had about how it wasn’t a kidnapping, since Oswald was free to leave at any time, he just never _asked_ to—such classic Ed Nygma logic made Oswald groan in frustration—what made it worse was the fact that he knew Ed well-enough now to know _what_ common Ed-thinking _was_.)

_Is there something I’ve done to change in the last few months, something that causes them all to seek me out like this?_

“This is ridiculous!” Oswald sneers, which does nothing but make Gordon angry enough to slam him into the brick building wall behind him again, gripping Oswald’s forearms so tight that he’s lifted slightly off the ground, his toes scrabbling for purchase on the pavement below him.

After his phone call with Edward, they decided to meet at Mugs not Madness to regroup and reevaluate their relationship. Oswald headed over to the shop with little present thought, the short walk muscle memory. Not far from his destination, he’d taken his usual shortcut, only to get rushed by two figures who popped out from behind a dumpster. Cane clanging to the ground, Gordon lifted him off the ground faster than Oswald could do a damned thing to defend himself. He kicked and flailed in a frenzied, defensive rage, snarling in Gordon’ face, sure he could’ve taken him in this fight if he’d had only a moment’s preparation, but Gordon had him by the throat, then immobilized by the arms, and Oswald was left with nothing to wield against him, except his words.

Unfortunate that Gordon, with a strange, cruel smile plastered across his face, eyes wide and wild, is clearly so delusional that nothing Oswald threatens _or_ pleads has any effect.

“I assure you, no one will be impressed that it took you a month to kill a crippled desk jockey,” Oswald mocks Gordon, trying to kick him again. “You are fully aware I’m not even a cop, aren’t you?”

“For your own sake, Oswald,” Gordon rasps, letting go of his arms, dropping Oswald to the ground, before grabbing Oswald by the front of the shirt, collar and cross tie balled in his fist, to pull him within an inch of Gordon’s face, “drop it. You escaped me once, and you won’t get out of it this time. It’s fate. I don’t need another target—you’re the only one I want,” he growls, voice low and beyond intimate, his eyes glazed over.

“Jim, seriously?” his partner asks from the side, tone incredulous. “Are you trying to kill him or go to bed with him?”

“Shut up, Harvey,” Gordon grouses back, pulling Oswald closer.

“Fuck you! I can’t believe you’re doing this right in front of me, did our vows mean _nothing_ to you?” His partner sounds miles more perplexed than jealous, and Gordon looks at a point behind Oswald’s shoulder, relaxing his grip only a fraction.

“‘M sorry, Harv,” he grumbles. Oswald blinks rapidly, gaping in shock at the bizarre situation.

“‘Sorry’ should mean you leave a little extra space between you and your new dancing partner there and _stop_ coming off like you’re seducing him into taking you into the bathroom and making you a man in the middle of _prom_.”

“Oh…yeah. Okay,” Gordon looks thoroughly admonished. Oswald is sure his eyes are going to fall out of his head if he opens them any wider in sheer astonishment. Gordon backs off a few inches, turning to look at his partner for reassurance, as he withdraws his gun from his hip holster—the exact moment Oswald has been waiting for, so he can reach as discreetly as possible into his own jacket and get his own gun out…

Gordon catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and lunges back at Oswald, slamming him so hard into the wall this time that the back of Oswald’s skull meets the bricks and ricochets with a force so hard the world dissolves to fractured blurs and blinding flashes of light. He wobbles on his feet (Bullock asks how Oswald isn’t unconscious after that— _I’m stalwartly, stubborn resistant_ , Oswald would respond, if he could) and the moment he feels the cold metal of Gordon’s gun meet his forehead, Bullock howls and Oswald hears a voice he never thought he would be _grateful_ to know belongs to someone who shouldn’t be where Oswald is right now—someone who is used to following him around, showing up uninvited.

“Jim!” Ed shouts, as he reefs one of Bullock’s arms behind his back and flicks open a switchblade beneath his chin, “hands off Oswald, _now!_ ”

“Hey man, finders keepers, we were here first. Go find your own—”

With a growl, Ed jostles his hostage and draws the blade firmly against his neck. “Do you think you are in a position to argue with me?” he hisses as he works on forming the skeleton of his plan. The rerun duo will not get away with this transgression—even the mere thought of harming Oswald is a crime in Ed’s eyes. Flicking his gaze to the man in question, Ed bites back his anger. Remaining level-headed will result in a more peaceful outcome, however, should Jim try to assault Oswald again, then nothing will deter Ed from taking action.

Taking a much-needed breath in order to recollect himself and his thoughts, Ed is still baffled at the scene he has stumbled upon. When Oswald failed to show up to their _scheduled_ coffee date, Ed was unnerved. He was certain Oswald’s invitation was heartfelt; after the emotional conversation they shared, the teasing and admissions, the _last_ thing he expected to find was the establishment empty, sans any appearance of the temperamental file clerk. After pacing the store for three hundred and thirty-seven seconds, Ed couldn’t take it any longer. If Oswald fell back into a pit of indecision regarding their situation, then Ed wanted to hear it for himself. Oswald owed him that much.

What he didn’t envision to find, as he backtracked Oswald’s usual route, taking every street and corner he had committed to memory weeks ago, was the man being assaulted in an alleyway. It was beyond absurd and frankly both frightening and anger-inducing.

This is _not_ how Oswald should be treated.

“Drop your guns, now!”

Harvey follows through with his command, gun clattering beside Ed’s feet in a matter of seconds. _So the behemoth can listen_. Jim—still pressed absurdly close to Oswald—fails to relinquish his weapon. He’s barely even paying attention. _Get your greedy eyes and hands off him, Jimbo_.

“Call off your man, Harvey,” Ed orders, feeling sick to his stomach, witnessing the way the two men before him are pressed together. If he cannot break through this _haze_ Jim has lost himself to, perhaps his partner could.

“Jim, I think this lunatic’s serious,” Bullock calls out as Ed’s gaze fixes on Oswald, observing his slumped state and the dazed look in his eyes. _Concussion,_ he diagnoses, based off the limited input he can gather. Whilst the first attack on Oswald paved the way for the beginning of their strange, ever-confusing _relationship_ , the second occurrence is doing little more than making Ed realize how important Oswald is to him and subsequently, how fragile his life is.

He could very well lose Oswald because of these thugs. What did they have against him? Why a file clerk? There are more challenging opponents out there.

“Lunatic, _me?_ ” Ed spits with an exasperated huff. “You think _I’m_ the crazy one, when it’s _your_ partner attacking my…my…Oswald.”

The two men share a indistinguishable look of confusion. “ _Your_ Oswald?” they say simultaneously and Ed balks.

“We weren’t aware the Riddler had his eyes set on someone.”

“Figured you were more the loner type.”

This is _not_ the time or place to be discovering what Oswald is to him, nor should it be done with an audience, especially not one of the lowly sort. Straightening his spine with false confidence, Ed shouts, “Enough! That’s not the point, what _is…_ is that you release my _friend_ and scamper off out of here before I am forced to do something drastic.”

“I’m not sure you should be the one ruling over these negotiations, Nygma, not when _I_ have _your_ Oswald in the palm of my hand,” Jim warns.

“Yes, and I have your partner,” Ed retorts, as a smile spreads across his face as laughter brews in his throat. “It appears as though we are at an impasse…if not for the fact that your _boss_ wouldn’t take too kindly to hearing that the two of you are thwarting me.”

“Why would Fox ever associate with the likes of you?”

“Oh, Harvey, ever so _dimwitted_. Foxy and I go _way_ back, even further than you could possibly imagine, but if you hold _doubts…_ let’s test it.”

Without another word, Ed kicks Harvey in the back of the knee, forcing him to buckle and with a well-intended (and thoroughly enjoyable) shove, Ed separates from his hostage and scrambles for the gun beside his foot. Standing tall with a weapon in each hand and a gleeful grin on his face, he steps between the paired pariahs and inches his way toward Oswald. Resorting to petty squabbles, however entertaining, would not diffuse the situation. Ed has to be pragmatic, calculative and clever. Oswald is depending on him.

“Uh— _ah,_ no moving,” he says when Harvey braces himself to charge. _Yes, I know all your moves, you old bull_. “Now, while I would generally draw out any opportunity I have to outsmart people, _especially_ the two of you, I’m afraid that I have to put that on hold for the time being.”

Throwing his head over his shoulder, Ed narrows his eyes on Jim. “Just so there’s no misunderstanding here, if you harm another cell in Oswald’s body, you won’t be the only one ending the day with bullets for brains, and your partner will suffer the same fate.”

Ed receives little in way of response, but he takes the silence as confirmation. _Stay strong, Oswald. You’ll be free soon._

After cocking the gun, Ed pulls out his phone and dials Fox, subsequently switching it over to speaker so all parties can bare witness to the proceedings. Perhaps now the rerun duo will think twice before messing with him and his, when they realize that their boss prefers Ed over his own thugs.

“Foxy!” Ed says in greeting when the phone is answered.

“ _Edward? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”_

“I wish it was on better terms, but some things ar—”

“Can it with chit-chat and get to the point!”

Ed tightens his hand around the body of the gun and takes half a step towards Harvey as he rocks back and forth on the verge of silencing that smart mouth once and for all…if only it was that easy.

 _“Is that Harvey?”_ Fox asks and Ed refocuses back on the conversation at hand as the man says, “ _It seems as though you’re in a bit of a pickle.”_

“Not one I’m incapable of handling myself,” Ed says proudly, “this just seemed like a faster alternative.”

Silence follows, a brief lapse where all parties wait with bated breath for Fox to speak again.

_“Okay, I’ll bite—what is it I can do for you?”_

Ed laughs and flicks his eyes between the two assailants before nodding to the phone. _I told you I had your boss in my pocket._

“Well, I’d be grateful if you could call off the rerun duo. They are—shut up, Bullock, I will call you what I like—sorry, Foxy, they are after someone I’d…rather keep safe.” Ed glares at Jim, hand still wrapped over Oswald’s tie, who is beginning to look a little worse for wear. The fact that Oswald is silent is troublesome enough, as in all the time Ed has known him, the man is often ever-prepared with several scathing quips at a time.

“ _Consider it done, Edward.”_

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Harvey rushes forward and snatches the phone out of Ed’s hands, who bites his tongue to save himself from hissing cutthroat remarks. Honestly, they may be villains, but that doesn’t mean that respect and manners go out of the window! At least Fox understands that.

“You’re gonna listen to the man who’s basically a personified version of the newspaper’s funny pages?”

“ _Now, Harvey, Ed’s request is reasonable.”_

“ _Reasonable_ my ass _,_ that freak bum-rushed me in an alley and you expect me to bend over because he asked nicely? No!”

Lolling his head to the side, Ed stolls forward with a slow clap, leaving Bullock to discuss semantics and what not alone. No matter what argument he makes, Fox has sided with Ed. There is little Bullock can say or do to change that.

Coming to stand at Oswald’s side, Ed ignores Jim in favor of brushing the back of his hand against Oswald’s. His smile falls when Oswald’s fingers twitching against his own and without thought, he slots them together, giving him something tangible to hold on to, something that wasn’t the last remaining vestiges of his consciousness or his attacker.

“I’d appreciate it if you remove yourself from Oswald now, Jim,” Ed says softly, as he lifts his chin and regards the man before him. “This fight is over.”

Jim hesitates, knuckles whitening around Oswald’s tie before he yanks him forward, tearing away the connection Ed had with him. He presses his face close, eyes flicking back and forth, then with a growl Jim tosses Oswald aside. Ever-prepared, Ed shoots out an arm, catching Oswald before he meets the wall again.

Lips pulled back over his gums, Ed vibrates with rage. He warned Jim, he _warned_ him not to injure Oswald again and what did the the lummox do…?

The gun creaks in Ed’s hand. It’d be all too easy to lift it and pull the trigger, to splatter brain matter all over the alleyway, to laugh as the life fades from Jim’s eyes, then turn on his partner. _I could do it,_ Ed muses as his hand begins to shake, _I could do it, it’d be easy._ With a sharp exhale, Ed drops the gun and kicks it away.

“You’re lucky, Jim Gordon—lucky I have matters of importance to see to, otherwise we’d be hashing this out _right_ now.”

“Oh, and what is the all-mighty Riddler going to do?” Jim asks with cocky self-assurance, unaware of how close he had come to being on the receiving end of a bullet. Ed silences a hiss when the cool barrel of Gordon’s pistol bites into the underside of his jaw. “I could kill you both right here, right now, and there’s little you can do to stop me.”

“Do it,” he seethes, tightening his arm around Oswald, as Jim pulls down on the hammer of his gun. “Do it and see how far you get.”

Brown eyes burn into blue as Ed inches forward, seemingly uncaring of the weapon beneath his jaw. _Good thing they can’t hear my heart._

“Jim, buddy, come on, let’s go. Forget these pipsqueaks, leave them to live whatever crackpot of a life they have stirred up.” Harvey tugs his partner away, but not before pelting Ed’s phone at his stomach, forcing out a wince.

Ed wants to sass back some retort, perhaps even perplex them with a riddle, but in favor of ending the dispute, he forces himself to remain quiet. _It’s over, and no one died._

When the parasitic pair disappear from his line of sight, Ed closes his eyes and breathes out a sigh of relief, before snapping them open in distress.

“Oswald!” he exclaims, finally giving into his panicked state, as he turns his attention to the man in his arms. Lowering him to a sitting position, Ed flutters about, checking his pulse, the bleeding lump on the back of his head, the temperature of his skin. They are all within normal range for the injury he received, yet Oswald isn’t speaking and he still holds that dazed look in his eyes as he peers up at Ed, unblinking.

“I was so worried about you. When you failed to show, when I thought Jim was going to kill you…I—I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” Ed rambles as he crushes Oswald to his chest in a firm hug. Too close—he had come too close to losing one of the most important people in his life. “You need to keep yourself safe. I—I need you to stay safe.”

Oswald sags into the hug, pushing his face into Ed’s shoulder, his arms limp at his sides. The world has slowed to a crawl, lurching and twisting before Oswald’s eyes. He feels so dizzy, so _blurry_.

Ed roves his hands over Oswald’s suit jacket, fussing and blathering about…something about Oswald’s clothes not looking as they should. “Look what they’ve done to you,” Ed complains, brushing the rumpled material down with his bare hands, yanking the lapels straight with a careful grip. “Unacceptable, it’s completely unacceptable! They don’t know how _sharp_ you always look, they have no sense of respect,” he prattles, unbuttoning Oswald’s cross tie and repinning it.

Ed’s fingers jump so violently that Oswald swears he feels every quake reverberate through his own body; then again, he keeps losing track of the passage of time, and he isn’t sure if he’s been in the alley, in and out of Ed’s embrace, for hours or for seconds. His vision unfocuses again and he tries to track the distance from the edge of Ed’s glasses to his eyes, but Oswald can’t remember how to fix his sight in any one particular place.

Brushing Oswald’s hair out of his face with quick flicks of his fingertips, Ed tilts his head down to look into Oswald’s eyes, the warmth of the palm of his hand holding Oswald’s fringe back, his fingers curled in the roots of Oswald’s hair. Leaning forward into the comforting touch, chasing it, Oswald closes his eyes, his lips parted as he tries to deepen his shallow breaths. Sometimes he dreams about comforting touches like this. It would be nice if that’s all today was—simply a long, strange dream, something Oswald can let slip through his fingers, to vanish, to be forgotten.

Overcome with emotion, Ed drops his lips to Oswald’s forehead, pouring every ounce of his concern and reverence into it, eyes watering as he lingers for a few moments he can’t be bothered to count, only to draw back when Oswald shifts and sharply inhales, slowly sinking to the pavement, losing the strength to stand.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ed apologizes with haste as he drops to the ground beside Oswald. “I know I forgot the no touching rule, I didn’t think, I—are you okay?” He presses his fingertips into his eyes, kneeling before Oswald. “I forgot, I was—oh god, I am so sorry, _I’ve already ruined it_ —” his voice is muffled, chin stuffed into his chest, as he repeatedly slaps his own head with a bandaged hand.

What happened to Ed’s hand? Oswald’s having a hard time remembering the order of events that have passed. They’ve been in the alley since—since—Oswald’s forehead still tingles from Ed’s kiss. Some of his tears had landed on Oswald’s skin, and his hair is stuck to the trace of them. Straining to look through the obstruction of his hair in his line of sight for his cane…his cane is…he has no idea.

“Thank you,” Oswald chokes out, his voice weak and wet. “Thank you,” he repeats, and Edward lifts his head to look at him. Oswald goes to lean back against the wall, but the moment the crown of his head meets brick, he shouts out in pain, and Ed’s arm flies out to catch Oswald by the shoulder, stopping him.

Oswalds nods, dull, understanding the implication in both the pain and Edward’s fast reflexes. The back of his head must be injured. He must have a concussion; amazingly, for all the physical assaults he’s been involved in and fights he’s had, he’s never sustained one before.

Edward pulls away again, crossing his arms quickly and trapping his hands under his biceps.

_Ed didn’t kill them. He saved me._

“You can touch me, it’s fine,” Oswald says softly, reaching out for Edward, brushing his fingertips down his arm. He wants Ed’s fingers back in his hair, that felt so _nice_ , but he can’t bring himself to ask, it’s too _strange_ , not to mention inappropriate of a request—he needs to concentrate on getting up, on getting help (for them both, apparently), but instead he’s caught between the hazy scope of his perception of reality and his heart hammering in his chest. He’s not sure if _either_ of those are symptoms of his injury; he needs to put his head down again. Bending forward, he leans forward into Ed, the side of his face against Ed’s chest, dropping his eyes shut again. He’s so _sleepy_.

 _I can…what?_ Ed is uncertain he heard Oswald correctly: for _weeks_ Oswald has been reminding him to keep his hands to himself, denying Ed any form of physical contact and now he is lying down, using him as his very own pillow. Oswald is…Oswald is _concussed,_ he shouldn’t be sleeping. It’s dangerous, especially whilst the extent of his injuries is unclear.

Mindful of Oswald’s position, Ed cradles his head in his hands. “Oswald…OSWALD!” he calls out, louder than expected, but it has the desired effect. Oswald’s eyes snap open and he groans. Ed strokes his thumbs back and forth across his cheeks as he ducks his head to catch his gaze. “You need to stay awake for me, I know it’s difficult, your head must feel so muddled, but you need to remain alert. Can you do that for me, Oswald, at least until we get you some help?”

Oswald smiles, patting Ed on the arm. “Why? It’s not like you’re going to take me to a hospital.” He would laugh if he didn’t feel so nauseated, sick from his injury. Besides, it’s true, he already knows Ed won’t rely on anyone for help—the ultimate irony that this will simply be a repeat of last time (except Oswald will happily sleep and then get up and leave Ed’s apartment when he feels better) makes him smile again, too tired to explain his bizarre responses to a very confused-looking Ed.

Ed asked Oswald once if he believed in fate. He was very adamant about it. At the time, Oswald fielded the question with a dismissive wave of his hand and a demand that Ed get to the point. He hadn’t felt comfortable admitting to Ed at that point that, yes, Oswald _does_ believe in fate.

By all accounts, Oswald should be dead right now. Ed’s actions to save him from being shot like a dog in the alleyway aren’t what saved Oswald life—there’s so much more complexity to it than that. Back in the day, that was the wisecrack comment everyone made about Oswald: he was never only one step ahead, but always clever enough to be at least _three_. For all the stress, for all the terror, anger, frustration, and exhaustion of the last month of his life, if Edward Nygma hadn’t planted himself in the center of Oswald’s life and started orbiting around him, acting as if it were the task he was put on Earth to _do_ , Oswald would, without a doubt, be dead right now.

Fish would’ve found him pinned under that rubble, after the attack. Oswald would’ve demanded to return back to work as soon as possible, and since Gordon and Bullock were clearly tailing him for some time, it didn’t matter that Oswald was on his way to meet someone for coffee—those two were only waiting for an opportunity to seize their capture and claim their kill. He could’ve just as easily been walking home or running an errand. Without Ed’s interference in Oswald’s life, without his _devotion_ to keeping track of Oswald, he would be dead. Even armed, the duo had attacked him so off-guard, he’d been no aid to himself.

“ _Oh_ , I don’t feel well,” he whines, biting his lips.

Ed, who hours ago Oswald had seen as the worst part of his life, was the wildcard variable he could never have counted on otherwise. For someone who had quickly been growing in infamy for killing people, whose casefile Oswald couldn’t handle reading, knowing he’d still have to look the man in the face afterward, was the sole reason Oswald still breathing. Hell, he fixed Oswald’s tie and kissed him as if it were a cure to all of Oswald’s troubles.

There’s a difference between being so strategic that one paces themselves ahead of the pack, plots far in advance compared to the other players, and then there’s sheer _luck_.

Oswald is lucky he is a lucky bastard; many times in his life he’d only squeaked by thanks to that good fortune.

Above all else, Oswald is lucky Ed Nygma is in his life.

“Mmhmm,” Oswald hums, nodding. “Please let Fish know this time? Good job not killing anyone,” Oswald blathers incoherently; he’s not sure what he’s trying to communicate. Dropping his head into Ed’s palm, he exhales, his whole body drooping. “Let’s sleep later,” he mutters, trying to push himself off the ground but only landing in Ed’s arms instead.

Ed arms tense as they slap around Oswald’s back and his heart hammers in his chest. He can feel the warmth of Oswald’s breath seep through the fibers of his shirt and for a second all he can do is stare as his mind runs static, unable to form thought. Lifting his hand, he cards his fingers through the top of Oswald’s hair, brushing it away, being mindful of the lump on the posterior.

He has often imagined spending time with Oswald like this, cuddled together, running his hands through Oswald’s hair… _kissing him_ , but why did it always occur after the man has been injured? Are these the only times Ed will find gentle affection with him, when he is too delirious to say no? Despite the peaceful smile on Oswald’s face, Ed feels unsettled. He doesn’t want it to be this way; he wishes more than anything that they will reach a point where they could be more to each other than mentor and mentee, however fate appears to have other plans.

Blinking rapidly, Ed snaps himself out of his internal rumination and wrinkles his nose as the odors of the alley assault him. They can’t stay sitting here on the jagged, filthy ground, not when Oswald needs help. Ed wracks his brain for where to take him, calculating the nearest medical facilities. The hospital is too far to reach on foot; it would mean doubling back to his car outside of Mugs not Madness, and that is a trek far greater than Oswald is capable in his current predicament. In the end, despite what this may mean for himself, Ed settles on taking Oswald back to the GCPD. They have medical staff there and it is a place Oswald is comfortable in, a place full of people that will care for him should Ed be falsely accused of attacking the file clerk and imprisoned.

“Come on, Oswald. It’s high time we get you some help,” Ed says as he runs the backs of his bandaged knuckles across the man’s cheek, utterly mesmerized at the fluttering of his eyelashes, before hooking an arm around his waist and raising them to their feet. After a brief moment of positioning and adjusting, Oswald is nestled against Ed’s side with head resting on his shoulder, eyes spinning as vertigo becomes his new enemy. With a quick flick of his foot, Ed takes hold of Oswald’s cane and they exit the alley, one step at a time.

They receive a few stares as they manoeuvre their way through the streets, with more than one person making moves to intercept them, whether that is to assist or not, Ed doesn’t care. He sends them away with a shake of his head or a narrowing of his eyes. This is _his_ duty, Oswald is _his_ responsibility, no one else, bar a medical professional, will be laying hands on him, not until he is sound of mind.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach the police department, although the journey was longer than Ed would have liked. What was generally a five minute brisk walk elapsed into a fifteen minute shuffle, with each step jostling the man in his arms, forcing out little grunts and incoherent babbling. Ed softly shushes him, whispering words of encouragement he strives forward; he has a mission to see through to the end and his will no matter what fate befalls him.

Strolling in through the doors of the GCPD, Ed freezes as a hush falls over the department. The silence is so intense Ed harbors a brief thought of fleeing, until the sound of the sharp strikes of the Captain’s red…no, _burgundy_ heels cut through his thoughts, as she storms her way over to his position.

Ed straightens, spine lengthening as he draws Oswald further into his side, with hopes of siphoning off some of his strength in order to get through this encounter.

“I didn’t do it,” Ed blurts at the same time she hisses at him, ordering an explanation regarding Oswald’s state.

She glares at him, unconvinced and shoots out an arm, narrowly missing the fibers of Oswald’s shirt as Ed takes a step back. His previous encounter with Fish Mooney saw Ed instantly obeying her commands, and although he is intensely aware that she could strike him down and no one would make a move to stop her, Ed continues to evade her attempts to take possession of Oswald.

“Hand him over… _now_.”

“No, Oswald…he, I—I said, I sai—”

“Jim Gordon tried to kill me. _Again_ ,” Oswald declares, both Fish and Ed falling silent as he cuts into their pointless back-and-forth. “Surprise attack, with no opportunity to even defend myself. Gordon and his partner admitted to having planned it since last month. It was Edward who saved my life,” he explains, stepping in between them both. “Without him, I would be dead.”

Fish looks at Oswald, twisting her head towards him in a motion he knows all too well is her way of asking if he’s serious.

“Every ounce of credit belongs to him,” Oswald tells Fish. “The immense bravery and righteousness he showed proves he’s good man,” Oswald says, eyes tracking around the room at the swarm of people gathered about. “He did the right thing.” He nods for emphasis and the world lurches violently again. Rocking on his feet, both Fish and Ed reach out for one of his arms, trying to brace him, but it’s a pair of hands splayed across his shoulders that stops him from landing on the floor in a heap.

“Come on, buddy, time to sit down,” Zsasz says, firmly but with clear concern. There’s a blur of motion and the sound of a chair being rolled toward them that Zsasz lowers him into. The familiar click of Fish’s heels and the soft shuffle of Ed’s loafers follow Oswald. A bright light bores directly into Oswald’s eye, his eyelid forcibly opened with the pad of a thumb.

“Oww!” Oswald groans, pulling away. “Dr. Strange, don’t—”

“Hugo’s out,” the person examining him comments, before repeating the same thing process on his other eye.

“Tabitha?” Oswald asks, confused. “Why are you—you work in forensics, and I’m _not_ , after all, a crime scene.”

“So? I still have medical training, Oz,” Tabitha counters, yanking his head forward so she can examine the back of his head. “Just because I don’t like working with _living_ people doesn’t mean I didn’t learn how the human body remains _alive_. And Hugo studied psychiatry originally, so I’m not that different.”

“I know that!” Oswald complains, while she feels around the injury with gloved fingers.

“You got smashed good,” she announces, tone almost devoid of emotion, except for the clear hint of a repressed snort.

“ _Helpful_ ,” he answers, shooing her hands away. “I know already that I’m concussed. Can you please look at Edward? He got injured, too, but he managed to bandage it somehow.” _How had Ed done that?_

All eyes turn to Ed and he balks, hiding his hands behind his back. He has yet to have the chance to clean them after he destroyed his bathroom mirror. With Oswald’s invite on the line, Ed had given them a brisk rinse before bandaging his knuckles up, with the thought of tending to them later. Later is _not_ now, later is supposed to be when he arrives home alone and checks the damage for himself, not with multiple witnesses around, ready to make comments and raise brows as they speak almost telepathically to each other.

The other stern woman— _Tabitha_ —strides forward, intent on doing what is requested yet instead of allowing it to come to pass, Ed retreats back a few paces. He doesn’t want to do this here, this is supposed to be about Oswald and his wellbeing, not his own.

“Edward… _Ed_ , just show her your hands.”

Ed swallows thickly, eyebrows pinched, breath shallow but he does as Oswald asks. With hesitant steps, Ed comes to stand beside Oswald and reluctantly unfurls his digits as his palms touch the table. He doesn’t like this, he doesn’t want a stranger touching him, peering down at wounds that _could_ be classed as _self_ -inflicted, yet he knows better. He did what he had to in order to silence the malicious voice in his head. A thousand concerns brew deep in Ed’s mind until Oswald’s hand begins rubbing at his lower back, then they settle to one: _what is Oswald going to think?_

It only occurs to Ed now, as his hands are unwrapped, carelessly for that matter, that the _entire_ GCPD now knows his name. Something he has kept well-guarded, a thing he has only told few, has resulted in Oswald unintentionally _blurting_ it to _everyone._ Yes, he was singing Ed’s praises, something he was all too happy to hear, but… _there’s no buts, Edward, what’s done cannot be undone. Adjust and move on._

“What did you do to yourself, punch your way through your car windshield? There’s glass everywhere.”

Ed lifts his chin and fixes the woman with a hard glare. How dare she make comments on things she doesn’t understand. “I do so question the GCPD’s forensic team if you struggle to tell the difference between glass and reflective mirror shards. It should be distinguishable to the trained eye…where did you study?” Ed questions, pulling a laugh from the bald man, forcing Ed to transfer his piercing stare in his direction. _It wasn’t meant to be funny._ Ed doesn’t react as the glass fragments are pulled free with even more detriment than before. He shifts on his feet as he observes the occupants surrounding him. He feels like an animal in the zoo, on display for others enjoyment. If only they’d just leave….

Unable to handle this treatment and scrutiny any longer, Ed snatches the tweezers out of the analyst’s hands and spits, “You’re not even a real doctor,” before making his way to the corner of the room, intent on plucking out the remaining pieces alone, with his back to everyone.

“You’re not a doctor either, _Riddler_ ,” Tabitha hisses, under her breath.

“Hush,” Zsasz tells her. “That’s on the DL, remember? Most of these guys don’t even know who he is.”

“Fuck off, Victor. I said it quietly. Besides, who cares?”

Oswald contorts his face, ignoring them both. “Ed,” he calls out, “Ed! Did you punch a _mirror_? Why’d you punch a _mirror_?” he half-bellows to be heard, as Ed retreats away, picking at his own hands.

Jolting forward, Oswald reaches out for Ed, but a firm shove from Tabitha plants him right back in his seat. He shoots a glare at her and she trains her face to not respond.

“Just sit still!” she orders, rolling her eyes in clear frustration.

Oswald growls back in reply and sags in the chair, his chin to his chest. That’s so _strange_ , why did Ed do that? The punching something reflective, that is. He doesn’t remember if Gordon…hell, he realizes he barely remembers anything about what happened with Gordon. _Maybe I should tell Fish before I forget_ , he considers.

But it’s too late—his mentor is already heading over towards his mentee, turning to insinuate her head in the small space Ed’s created with his body. _Are they talking?_ Oswald strains to listen, leaning forward.

“Ed! Don’t you want to go get coffee?” Oswald bellows. The man turns around, boggled, with Fish blinking slowly in response to Oswald’s outburst as well. That’s the exact moment Oswald vomits.

“Oswald!” Ed shouts. “You have to—you people have to help him!”

“Pardon me,” he coughs out, pulling his head from between his knees and wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. The damage is minimal but still vastly unpleasant. “I think it’s time I have a small nap, just a short rest,” he adds, pushing his cheek into his chin as he sits back. “Once I feel better, I can fix this…”

“Whoa, Ozzie—Ozzie, buddy, come on, stay awake for me, why don’t you?” Zsasz gently pats Oswald’s cheeks, trying to rouse him. “Think it’s about time we get him to a hospital?”

“I called one before I came out here,” Tabitha explains.

“No! I don’t wanna go back to the hospital!” Oswald whines, drooping against the armrest.

“Oswald!” he hears Ed call again.

“Oswald, you’re going,” Fish commands. “ _You_ are staying here,” he hears her say. She must be talking to Ed. Oswald can’t even see clearly anymore, he’s so tired….

Zsasz climbs on top of a nearby desk and looks down at the rest of the people in the gallery. “Alright, time for the peanut gallery to depart,” he announces, pointing. “Damn vultures,” he remarks, as people shuffle back to their work and depart from the entrance of the station.

Ed bats the captain’s finger away from his chest and steps around her. With people clearing away, he feels like he can finally draw breath again, allowing his mind to shift back into focus. Coming up behind Oswald, Ed tilts his chin up and brushes a few unruly strands of hair off his now clammy forehead before pulling out a green handkerchief and wiping his face down. “ _Better_ ,” he whispers to himself…well, it isn’t better, but at least Oswald is a smidge cleaner now.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Ed tells Oswald as he ducks his head to whisper in his ear, hiding his face from the last few onlookers. “My hands will heal, it’s only a superficial wound, but you have a head contusion, that’s serious. I knew I should have taken you to the hospital…but—”

“Ed—”

“I know, I understand. Excuse me.” Ed straightens and removes himself from Oswald before intercepting the incoming paramedics, halting them in order to relay a detailed rundown of the situation at hand, including a list of symptoms, touching on any and all information they may need, before turning his back on them.

Balancing himself on the balls of his feet, Ed crouches down in front of Oswald’s and peers up at him. “Please get some rest…once you have been cleared to do so, but for no longer than a few hours, as I don’t want you to slip into a coma. I—I guess I’ll see you sometime soon,” Ed says sincerely, although he isn’t too certain what direction the next few moments will have on his life. The captain is looming not three paces behind him, never straying far… _what does she want?_ Ed is the hero, is that not enough in her eyes or is she preparing to reprimand him for not being fast enough—something Ed is already feeling a deep seated guilt for.

Whatever her plan, she barely says a word to Oswald as he is wheeled away. Instead she gives him a pat to his cheek, before crooking a finger at Ed, silently ordering him to follow.

“Sit down, Edward,” Captain Mooney commands as they enter her office. Playing with the open wounds on his hands, Ed does as instructed, thinking over the best way to plant his feet: folded or flat?

“Thank you,” she says after sometime and Ed is perplexed. She _isn’t_ arresting him. _What?_

“I’m… _sorry_?”

“You heard me,” she snaps and with that Ed quickly nods, unsure of what he is agreeing to, but he knows with absolute certainty that it’s best not to question someone of her station. _Accept and adapt._

Six minutes pass. Ed counts the seconds, timing it with the beating of his heart. He reads every certificate pinned to the walls and begins to scrutinize the sparse knickknacks, mentally repositioning them in a way that would see them thoroughly appreciated rather than forgotten as they are scattered about carelessly. _How does she get any work completed with everything out of balance?_

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Ed utters as he clears his throat and nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Why am I here? If—if this is about Oswald, I can assure you that I will not intrude on him again while he is in the hospital. He made that clear the last time.”

Fish Mooney narrows her eyes and folds a hand beneath her chin. _Why doesn’t she speak?_ Ed questions internally. _Is she reading my mind?_

“So…if that’s why you are keeping me here, there is no cause for concern. Unless—”

“Edward, zip it!”

“Yes, sorry.”

More time elapses. Ed openly acknowledges that he occasionally has struggles speaking with people but it is _nothing_ compared to how he feels waiting and deciphering their unspoken words. Silence breeds silence, time turns and Ed shifts in his chair, hands fidgeting, waiting for Fish to speak. He won’t interrupt again, it will only bring further chastisement…so he sits, while she stares at him.

“How are you?”

“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand?” This isn’t what he expected. Why do people continually go off script, how is he supposed to form a response if he cannot follow?

“You ran out of here crying earlier,” Fish continues, as blasé as ever, unknowing of Ed’s internal confusion, “and now you return with mirror fragments imbedded in your knuckles. Forgive me for being concerned.”

“Today hasn’t been that easy,” Ed confesses as he tucks his hands under his arms and drops his chin to his chest. “I did something bad and made Oswald cross with me…but I fixed it!”

“Edward, you spilled coffee over a few sheets of paper. A deliberate action or not, it shouldn’t have set Oswald off the way it did. You _do_ understand you’re not at fault here, right?”

Ed shakes his head and rubs his shoes together, crossing his ankles over each other. “No, I am…I was disrespectful, I should have listened. If I did, Oswald wouldn’t have sent me away and in return he wouldn’t have been assaulted in an alley. Cause and reaction, I set this in motion.”

Fish’s chair squeaks and Ed lifts his chin, peeking at her over the top of his glasses as she swiftly moves to perch herself on the front of her desk.

“Edward, working with Oswald is never going to be easy. You couldn’t have chosen a more temperamental mentor—” Ed scoffs, then his eyes widen in surprise at his action but the captain ignores him, “—there are things I am not at privy to discuss regarding Oswald’s past, but let me tell you for the first time in his life, Oswald is _actively_ caring about someone other than himself, and no, I’m not talking about his reluctant acceptance of mentorship, I’m speaking about the fact that _that_ boy would rather forgo his own health and self-betterment in favor for getting your hands checked. Despite the ongoing issues the two of you are having and the changes you both are experiencing, there have been a few surprising positive discoveries.”

“So, you’re saying…” Ed draws off as he picks at his cuticles.

“I’m saying that I’m proud of you, the _both_ of you. You’re making the most of a difficult situation and for the most part, you are persevering.”

The words of praise bring a smile to Ed’s face as he moves to stand and head for the door, noting that the conversation has come to a close. Stopping halfway through it, Ed looks back and the captain and nods. For the first time in recent weeks, Ed is certain he has made steps in the right direction. The captain of the GCPD is proud of him and Oswald appears to feel a little more comfortable in his company, too.

Things are looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that chapter ended on a nice note. How good is it to see Ed somewhat happy again!!
> 
> Thank you for reading and and updating us with your reactions to the fic; we love to hear what you guys think! The next chapter is going to detail the changes in Oswald and Ed's dynamic and will include a few mentions of characters we have not yet seen. Exciting times are ahead. Thank you again!


	6. I'm Doing This All for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kristen works her way through the powerful figureheads of Gotham in a search for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline wise this chapter takes us back the end of chapter three and details Kristen's journey where, by the end of it, we will find ourselves in the present.
> 
> We apologise for the lack of nygmobblepot in this update, but it makes the anticipation for the next chapter grow. 
> 
> Happy reading ❣

**WEEK ONE**

Truth be told, Kristen had wanted to ask Valerie first, out of everyone, if she knew anything about the “broadcast” Ed had spoken of (and blamed himself for), but the unfortunate timing made it seem too “convenient,” which, of course, wasn’t the case at all. Nothing of her deciding to go out with Val was to get information; it was only to have a nice date with a lovely woman. Still, she was determined to prove Ed wrong, because she truly believed he _was_. The crime’s details struck her as a planned hit, and not the usual machinations of her partner’s, but who was to blame for the set-up? And who was she going to start looking for information from?

That was it: someone who wouldn’t take it as a personal insult; someone used to being asked for assistance.

And Leslie Thompkins was the perfect candidate.

Now the owner of her own club, dealer in all number of mob activities, and _the_ lady to call if you needed to organize an assassin hit, Leslie knew it all, and knew everyone. If there was a tie to be had to Gotham’s underworld, either Lee held the ribbon between her fingers, or she could pull six others and make it appear. Her deftness at playing the cat’s cradle strings of the city was glorious to watch, each play she made already compensated and countered for, weaving a tapestry with nothing but her bare hands and sharp mind.

It was little wonder she was a former (and thankfully unaware of it, as far as she knew) crush of Kristen’s. Ironically, Lee was the reason she’d even met Valerie—she’d practically set them both up. Paying her a visit wouldn’t be out of the normal for Kristen.

Besides, Eddie needed his neck looked at.

 _Oh, look at you go—instinct to cover a man’s crimes up still driving you? I’m ashamed, as always. Good going, Kristen. You just can’t stand it if another man in your life turns out to have deceived you for so long_ and _gotten away with it, can you? What will our poor shattered ego do with that realization, the repetition, that even though you’ve stopped forcing yourself to fuck them, all the men in your life are still nightmares, and are more than happy to fuck you over—_

Kristen rolls her eyes and lolls her head back, rocking side-to-side in the nice swivel chair in Leslie’s office, while she waits for her to return from tending to Eddie’s neck. She’d finally managed to convince him to let someone look at it; it only took a full 24 hours after Ed ditched her to go run off to his crush-of-the-week/ _attacker’s_ bedside before she succeeded at convincing him he needed to get someone to clean that mess of a wound up.

“Put this on it morning, day, and night, for the next week,” Lee explains to him, handing over a small ointment vial she’d written on in permanent marker.

“And stop touching it!” Kristen adds.

“You are not the attending physician here,” Ed sasses back, and Lee barks out a laugh in response.

“I’m not a physician anymore, anyway. My license is gone for good.”

After much sulking and ever-present awkwardness from him, Kristen shooed Ed along, giving him a long, warm embrace before sending him home. Lee had returned to the side-room adjacent to the office; Kristen assumed she was cleaning the space up. Opting to sit on the desk this time, Kristen crossed her legs and held her knee in her intertwined fingers, tapping the back of her heel on the wood.

“Leslie, darling, can we speak for a moment?” she singsongs over her shoulder.

Lee’s head pops out from behind the door, only opened a smidge. “You’re still here?” she asks, not cruelly, her heavily-painted eyes blinking quickly.

“I know I’ve already inconvenienced you enough for one night,” Kristen starts, gripping her fingers too tightly. “It’s no secret you hate him, and I’m sorry to bring him here, but—”

“It’s badly infected,” Lee pulls back for a moment and then steps out from behind the door, waving her hands frantically, the sharp scent of hand sanitizer biting the air. “I don’t have to like him to still not want to see him die so pitifully. Besides, I don’t hate the kid. He’s…lost. And he’s one of yours. Well, maybe your only. That counts for something.”

Taking a seat behind her, in the chair, Kristen swings her legs onto the desk and turns backward to face Lee, leaning on one arm to hold herself up.

“Alright, you’re not here just for fun, we all know how co-dependent you two are—normally, you’d have run out of here by now to check on him. What do you need, Red?” Lee asks, reaching for a wine glass balanced on the bookcase behind her. Kristen hadn’t even noticed she’d hidden it there! She smiles as Lee wraps her fingers under the bowl, short black nails resting against the glass.

It’s not easy to explain what she’s curious about, and Lee blinks back every expression that crosses her face as Kristen explains.

“There’s a few people it could be,” Lee drawls, placing her glass down to dig out a pad of paper and a pen. She starts sketching something quickly, pursing her lips. “You have a few leads to follow. If it was something involving me, I would come out and say it, but it’s not me or mine.” She hands Kristen the paper, folded in half crookedly. “Before you start stealing files and tricking people into a false sense of security, you really need to check with—”

“Valerie? To make sure it’s not her people? I intend to, it’s…it’s that—”

“No. Not what I was going to suggest. You need to check with yourself, about why you’re doing this. You _know_ he isn’t stable, and as bad of a girl as you’ve worked to become,” she rolls her eyes and smiles, teasing, “you and he are on _very_ different career paths, let’s put it that way.”

 _Oh, if only you knew, girlfriend,_ Kristen wants to say, thinking of the mess with the desk jockey. _If only you knew how different he has yet to become._

“Leslie…” Kristen smiles, reaching forward to stroke Lee’s shoulder, focusing on conciliatory and resisting the old, lingering urge to brush her long raven hair with her fingertips, “I appreciate everything you’ve ever done for me, but I have the ‘morals-fight’ with myself every day.” She winks. “I’m good in that department. Promise.” Kristen turns and hops off the desk, smoothing her sweater down before sliding the note in her skirt pocket. “Really, I’m good,” she says again, reminding herself more than anything. “Thanks for this.”

~~~

**WEEK THREE**

Kristen freezes when she sees the beam of light arch over her shoulders. Crouched in front of the safe she’s just broken into, she’s busy stuffing files in her leather jacket, working quickly in the dark, only halting when it’s clear she’s been caught.

The safe was the _easy_ part, and she opened it the _easy_ way, by scoping out the ins and outs of her target’s life and then breaking into the safe with the actual combination, pilfered from a “secret file” the mayor’s chief of staff kept in her desk, for the times that someone forgot. As fun as the almost-hour long lesson in how to crack a safe with a stethoscope (complete with the history of the manufacturer) Eddie gave her a few years ago, his methods were _too_ much.

People truly don’t want to forget things; Kristen capitalizes on this, knowing the truth of it all too well. Humans forget everything, and the only ways to remember are to mentally obsess over the details, or write it all down.

She knew how to get both variants out of people.

“You do know the mayorship, as unpleasant as it is for me to confess to it, is a figurehead position, an empty seat of power,” the mayor explains to her, in that icy, calm tone Kristen recognizes from TV. “Whatever you want, I can almost guarantee that I don’t know it, nor do I even have access to it.”

“For a woman who has held positions of power much better than this one, I trust you to know, Justice Kathryn,” Kristen intones, addressing her by her former title. She stays still, sure that the mayor has a gun trained on her back, and not only a flashlight.

“Oh, please, it’s just Kathryn, now. Flattery, in the flavor of former failures of mine, will hardly help you.”

“Why do it, then, if you think it’s so pointless?” Kristen asks, turning her head only enough for Kathryn to see her profile. In _inches_ , she will work on turning to face the woman, but only in inches. “I mean being mayor of this nightmare of a city, not dealing with a common thief in your office. Even that I wouldn’t be pleased about.” She smiles. “No hard feelings there, Madam Mayor.”

She hears Kathryn chuckle softly, a repressed, contained sound that never leaves her chest. “Some naïve, hope-filled part of myself, something that not even the almost sixty years life has had to work towards proving me incorrect, to _bleed_ it out of me, has ever managed to be completely depleted, because I still believe that Gotham can be saved. I’ve tried many, many paths to that goal, not all of them effective, not all of them _ethical_ , but I couldn’t give up. Not with breath in my body, I cannot quit. Besides, the competition was a joke. There was no reason to not seize the win, with it right there.”

“True. Your main opponent being a literal former mass murderer and all,” Kristen stands, springing up before she fights with herself about the timing. It feels right, and that’s how Red operates. “Interesting that Barnes got locked up right after the election. Was that you, or the cops? They’re rarely that effective, but perhaps…” Kristen turns, showing she’s unarmed. “I’m being judgemental, after all. Who am I to decide I’m better than any other man who has killed?” That’s when she sees Kathryn’s gun, which hits her harder than she planned.

 _Oh, honey, we need to work on your self-esteem if you think any of that is true,_ she thinks fast, her face faltering for a moment with the intensity of the realization. _It’s not judging them that’s the problem. It’s that you don’t. You’ve always been too stupid. That’s what makes you lesser than them._

The sound of the gun being placed on the table snaps Kristen out of it. “You’re seeking something more than files or money, aren’t you?” Kathryn asks. “Sit.” The woman takes the only seat available, poised with a stern grace.

Kristen has nowhere else to go but on the desk. It doesn’t feel thrilling this time, and she sits like a child, with her legs crossed.

“If you have it and share it, then you don’t have it anymore,” Kristen says quickly, clenching her eyes and smiling in pain when she realizes she’s flustered. It’s one of Eddie’s riddles; she thinks about it a lot, but she can’t recite it correctly, the order of the words escaping her, as all those wordplays do; like poetry, only the emotion remains. “Secrets. You could say they’re my currency; I deal in them more than anything else.”

“They tend to have the most value,” Kathryn replies.

Kristen breathes slowly, working on regaining her confidence. She sweeps her hair behind her ear, pulling on one of her beloved earrings, readjusting the hook back in place. They were a custom-ordered gift to herself, based on her own design—a heart with a circle underneath: imaginary punctuation.

“I know who you are,” Kathryn announces smoothly, picking a piece of fur off her silver brocade skirt. She raises her eyebrows at what must be the clear shock on Kristen’s face. “My position might be useless, but I’m not. We’ve had our eye on you for some time.”

Kristen goes to speak but is cut off before she gets a syllable out.

“No, it’s _not_ because of your friend. Thompkins, I mean. You stand out on your own, without her. And it’s certainly not because of that… _psychopath_ you’ve aligned yourself with, though your failure of a riddle lets me know you think that’s your claim to fame.”

“I need information,” Kristen blurts out. “Might as well cut to the point.”

“And for the moment, I’m your captive audience.” Extending a hand, Kathryn gestures towards herself. “Return my paperwork and then we’ll have a chat. I don’t know if I’ll have what you want, but the library of my life is yours to pursue. So long as yours is in return, someday. Favor for a favor.”

Kristen smiles. Not such a bad start after all.

~~~

**WEEK FIVE—PRESENT DAY**

Two of the people on the list Leslie gave Kristen are left; seeing as it started with _three_ names, Kristen is both unsure if she’s making good time and if she’s going to have any luck yet. Each target requires research, work, _effort_ to start to decode, and the mayor didn’t provide any new leads. What good are these introductions if they have nothing useful to tell Kristen?

_My god, is there anyone in your life you don’t start out by using them first? Is that the only way you can love people, to test out what they have to give you first? For a woman who claims love is the answer to all of life’s questions, your motto doesn’t fit your M.O._

The dark thoughts make Kristen shiver; as if walking to the GCPD again wasn’t bad enough. She’d thought about breaking into the captain’s residence instead, just to avoid coming back to this place, but that was _really_ too Ed-esque for her tastes.

Waiting to sneak into the woman’s office was bad enough, though it was already the second time Kristen had done it. _Let’s hope Oswald’s mentor isn’t as volatile as he is_ … _._ For a man who saved her life, but almost killed her best friend, she still can’t decide how she feels about him. Hopefully, he’ll be a thing of the past after she solves Eddie’s mystery and she won’t have to think about it, or deal with any of those memories ever again.

Captain Mooney is best described as being _captivating_. The way she slices through the crowded gallery, coat billowing behind her, each step forward like the blade of an ice skate slicing and sliding through ice, makes Kristen shiver twice. Maybe this is how it feels to see in someone else what you wish you could finish manifesting in yourself.

 _Questions first, admire later,_ Kristen reminds herself, scuttling forward and catching the closing door with the fake file folders she’s been carrying, pretending to be a visiting clerk from the neighboring precinct, hair pulled back tight and her blandest clothes on, blending in and unrecognizable in her averageness. With a deep breath, she steps in the door and immediately locks it behind her, before ascending forward towards the captain.

Fish halts her movements as she runs the tip of her tongue across the ridges of her teeth. “Now there’s your first mistake,” she chides as she spins on her heel to face her anticipated guest, comprising her face into her usual mask of nonchalance, “if your intention was to blend in you are doing a _poor_ job of it, my dear. File clerks don’t generally have the audacity to intrude on me in my office, let alone lock the door behind them. It’s quite brazen behavior—honestly, good job catching me off guard.”

Fish rolls her eyes with a shake of her head. _Amateurs_. It is almost pathetic, really. Did people forget that she was raised on this streets, that she knew how criminals thought because she dabbled in that area for almost a third of her life? Although she has the aptitude to capture her almost any crook or thief, it is her cunning and prior life experience that assists her most of all.

“Would you like to know your second area of failure, miss _whoever-you-are?_ ” Fish asks as she steps forward, appraising the woman from the strands of her red hair to pointed toes of her heels. “It’s your disguise, it’s _almost_ pitiful. Although the pencil skirt and lace collar are a nice touch, there are no crumpled creases that occur when you spend a majority of your time sitting or rifling around in the cabinets. _Then_ , there is the issue of your demeanor. You hold too much determination in your shoulders and your eyes shine with intent. You don’t possess that run down look I’m accustomed to.”

Holding off on the last portion of her debasement, Fish stalks her way over to her desk and perches herself on the edge, smirking internally at the stunned look on the woman’s face as she lapses into her most common intimidation technique. Silence…filled with the uneasiness of an unblinking stare. When the _girl_ before her actively starts displaying her discomfort, shifting slightly on her feet with her arms tightening around the files, Fish relents with a tilt of her head.

“I could go on and on about your amateurism, but frankly it’d bore me,” Fish says with a wave of her hand, “so, let’s settle on you telling me _why_ you are here and _why_ I shouldn’t arrest you for attempted solicitation of a public servant by nefarious means.”

 _Oh, I have so much to learn,_ Kristen realizes, in awe.

“I do hope by ‘solicitation,’ you mean you’re aware I’m here on…hmm, let’s call it ‘business,’ of the information-gathering-sort, and not that I’m trying to, ah,” Kristen thought she could pull this joke off suavely but she feels her cheeks redden; being under the piercing gaze of the commanding woman in front of her isn’t exactly easy, “A woman as honorable as yourself deserves only the greatest respect. I’m not here to proposition you.”

Kristen swallows hard. “Who I am isn’t important; to you people, I’m a dead woman, anyway. We made sure of that; I even checked it recently. It’s good to know what people are saying about you.”

She takes a careful step forward, biting her lip, clutching the files. Only one of them is real: it’s about the massacre. The other is a leftover prop. She withdraws the case file and extends it toward the captain.

“This isn’t about me, this is about missing pieces. Incorrectly archived, unsolved mysteries. I hate blank pages, I hate when things are incomplete. I hate not having everything I need filed away safely. Someone has to keep track of things around here, and,” she smiles with one side of her mouth, “might as well be me.”

Breathing in sharply through her nose, Kristen shakes her head, her taut ponytail swinging with the movement. “Are there meant to be parts of this record absent, or,” she swings the other file forward, arching both of them out, holding the green question mark calling card Ed painted himself against the front. It’s obnoxious and stands out clear against the file cardstock, a little ‘present’ Ed wanted her to leave in place of his file when he’d asked her to go steal it over a month ago, on that fateful day she’d last been in the GCPD. “Should I go ahead and file both of these together, or is there no correlation?”

“I don’t believe a _dead_ woman should have access to any of my files, no matter how inquisitive she may be,” Fish retorts imprudently as she thumbs the file, without giving it a passing glance. The nerve of this girl….

As Fish sits stoically in her chair, she recalls Oswald briefly speaking about a redhead he saved during the GCPD ambush. There is no doubt in Fish’s mind that the person standing before her and the one Oswald described aren’t the very same one. The only questions remaining are: is she in line with Edward or does she hold loyalty to the Riddler? Information of any sort has power, the power to punish or corrupt, the power to manipulate, so what is it she gets out of this? If her intention is to draw Edward back into the foray then Fish will not hesitate to toss her in the cage. That boy is finally getting his shit together, Fish won’t stand to see him destroyed.

Pursing her lips, she shifts her attention down to the file with slight curiosity. The question marked card is a nice touch, had Edward’s files been stolen its use would have infuriated her, thankfully his records remain secure inside her office at all times, along with Oswald’s own. Fish has been poring over it in recent weeks, pleased that she could barely connect the two men. Edward and the Riddler grew more estranged as the days shifted by, with his recent success a tribute to his new ideals.

 _Oh, the 8th street massacre._ Fish resists the temptation to throw a passing glance at the girl in favor of keeping her blank mask in tact as she begins to scan the file. It is one of the more brutal cases she has worked on, with minimal evidence recovered from the crime scene, much to her detriment. Fish has been hounding both Galavan and Strange for further details ever since, but her hands continue to turn up empty. Progress is slow going.

_Is she insinuating that this was Edward?_

The Riddler is not one to conduct even the simplest of heists without leaving his marker behind; had he murdered these people, he would not let another criminal take the credit. He is _much_ too egotistical for that. This case obviously requires further analysis in light of this accusation but this isn’t something Fish is too keen to share with her imprudent guest.

“If you have come seeking information, you will not find it here. I have no reason to trust you, someone who would deceive their way into getting what they desire. This man, _Edward_ , no matter what he means to you, is under my protection. If you intend to take him down…” Fish trails off with a wave of her before slapping it down on the desk as she rises to her feet and leans over her desk, “then you better think twice, little girl.”

“You think deception is the most amoral way I could’ve pulled this off? You should’ve seen what I did to the mayor,” she grins, winking. “Not to mention, you’d be shocked at what I have planned for my next target!” Kristen laughs. “Don’t worry, no one will be hurt—” _this time…_ “it’s just a smidgen of breaking and entering here, and a smattering of debasement there, that I’m not above committing.”

Sauntering forward, Kristen sits on the armrest of one of the chairs in front of the desk. Planting a palm along the edge of the table, Kristen leans in, arching around Fish’s pose, to tap a finger on one of the photographs of the broadcast massacre. “See, what I can’t figure out is _who_ would’ve done this.” Looking up, Kristen raises a brow. “I know you didn’t, if you think I’m implying that. You, the mayor, all your _kind_ ,” Kristen curls her lips and rolls her eyes, “You’re all so _moral!_ ” She waves the thought away with the same hand she’d pointed with, returning to the file, closing it and sliding it away from Fish as she returns to her feet.

“I see it two ways, and correct me if I’m wrong: your police force has the power to cover up another’s crimes, if you chose to, that, or, as Eddie’s always telling me, you’re all so ‘incompetent,’“ Kristen makes air quotes and imitates one of Ed’s annoying haughty faces, pursed lips, sullen demeanor and all, “that you wouldn’t know it if one of the city’s, ah, _crazier_ players decided to up their game—change the rules, so to speak.”

Fish is entirely impassive; nothing about her face or the tension in her stance has softened or yielded. Kristen knew this would be her most challenging target. She’s still fumbling her way through this, but Ed’s worth it. He would do the same for her, she’s sure. They’ll never turn on each other, they’ve been through too much together, and that includes making sure they don’t turn on themselves.

Sighing heavily, Kristen closes her eyes as she works through a series of emotions, ranging from frustration to resignation. “Look, I know you like to collect broken little criminals off the streets and raise them as your own, but he’s not family to you.” She digs her nails into her palms and swallows. “He is to _me_. You barely know him, and you never will, like I do. He looked out for me when no one— _no one else_ —cared if I ended up dead in a dumpster or worse. I couldn’t explain it to you if I had years to try. The Riddler is as much my brother as Edward is. You can’t understand—you can’t. You didn’t have to give into it like he and I did.”

Kristen pauses and watches the perplexion cross Fish’s face.

“The _darkness_ ,” Kristen clarifies. “We did what we had to—we transformed into the forms life forced us to become. He thinks he’s a monster. I’m guessing you already know that.” Fish doesn’t nod or indicate any level of agreement, but Kristen can see the understanding in her eyes. “I think it made me free,” she says softly, smiling slightly, fixing her eyes elsewhere. “You know who you _want_ him to become,” _And I know what I want him to remain,_ “but not what he might become without either of us being prepared for it.”

“The strange obsession he has with Mr. Oswald Cobblepot isn’t the first time he’s gotten transfixed with the idea of what some man—” she stops herself from saying ‘he’s got a crush on,’ besides, even she’d been some prototype to that pattern of Eddie’s, and _no one_ wants to get into that topic, least of all Kristen. “This isn’t the first time he’s chosen a _mentor_ for himself; it’s not the first time he’s morphed under another’s influence.” _Thank god Fox got sick of him faster than even I did,_ she thinks.

Giving up, Kristen comes and sits in the chair closest to her, crumpling with no semblance of grace. “I want to believe that someone else did that massacre—political nonsense, gang wars, a cover-up for an assassin hit…I don’t care if I was simply a random crime. But Ed believes he did it; it’s why he’s desperate enough to find out if your quote-unquote _son_ is good at saving people from more than falling beams.” She looks at her nails, flexing her fingers backwards, wrists in her lap and legs crossed. Fish has stayed so stoic and silent all this time, likely intentionally wearing Kristen down. She _really_ needs to step out from behind Ed’s shadow more, and learn her own showmanship! This is embarrassing!

“I’m no angel, myself,” she explains, pressing her fingertips into her sternum. “I don’t judge Ed’s crimes, I _couldn’t_ , and I don’t really want to see him change. We went into this together, and I wanted us to remain that way, but…I can’t abide by…by _that_ ,” she gestures, without looking, toward the file, her chin tipped down. “That’s a little more than even he signed on for. He’s too broken to know whether he did it or not, and that’s why I _will_ be leaving here with the information you deny me,” Kristen says, looking up, willing bravery from an unknown depth. “You people think you can save everyone if you just muster up enough love for them and push hard enough. That forgiveness solves every crime in the end. But you don’t know—you don’t know!” Kristen slams her fist into her open palm, squashing down the temptation to shout.

“You don’t know what real connection is. It’s born from seeing the worst in someone and still choosing to love who they are underneath, their light, in _addition_ to their dark. You haven’t held him in your arms when he breaks down, which is _often_.” Biting her lip, she frowns. “Love isn’t something that rescues people from themselves, and protectiveness doesn’t shield them from trouble. Trust me when I say I’m sure that it is Iwho has the moral high ground here! I came to love him, learned how to help him, and it’s me who has to pick his pieces up off the floor and solve the things he doesn’t understand, not any of _your_ kind who do this for a job, so, no, if I leave, it’s because you’re as useless as cops typically are, and not because you scared me into thinking you know better than me.”

 _The girl has spunk, I’ll give her that._ Fish straightens and regards her guest in a new light; she is impressed with the redhead’s determination and drive. Not anyone would accost the captain of the GCPD in her office and demand answers. It takes someone incredibly brave, foolish, or desperate to execute such a move and with recent revelations in mind, Fish is certain the girl before her covers all three aspects. With some time, she could prove to become a worthy adversary. It’s something Fish shouldn’t be commending in the slightest, as it would only serve to make her job more difficult in the long run.

Although Fish has the means and motive to arrest the redhead after her admissions and past escapades, she resorts to laughing heartily, throwing her head back with a hand to her chest, indulging in her mirth for a split second.

“Do you feel better after getting that off your chest?” Fish asks as she cocks her head to the side. A small smile spreads across her face when the redhead frowns in response. Her outburst was something Fish was striving for, as only then was she guaranteed a genuine response and an accurate read on the situation.

“Sometimes the _best_ way to get answers is with honesty. Your endeavours would be more fruitful should you tailor your approach to fit your target.” Fish continues with a shake of her head, admonishing herself for giving advice to a criminal. Playing the role of supportive mentor saw the words slipping free before she could catch them, assisted further by the link she saw between herself and the girl before her. It’s easy to request the world when you know so little of it. _She has much to learn._

“How new you are to life,” Fish says almost admonishingly as she closes the file, hand lingering atop of it. “You may understand how to conduct yourself on the streets, using whatever _wiles_ available to get you what you want, but you overlook the complexities. Little _Red_ ,with her hood pulled over her eyes, avoiding the truth blatantly detailed in front of her. How does it feel to be blind and so naïve?”

Lowering herself into her office chair, Fish withdraws her flask, takes a large swig before capping it and storing it away. She takes note of the woman’s confusion; the crease between her brows the slight tilt to her head and the way her lips part in silent question.

“Loving someone allows you to overlook their faults.” Fish explains. “You become blind because you wish to see only what you are _comfortable_ with and when you happen across a question you cannot answer you lock it away. Now there’s a problem with that, those _postulations_ , they niggle in the back of your mind, brewing and growing in all your uncertainty, until your love morphs into doubt and ultimately fear.” Fish observes a frightful realization pass over girl’s face,—personal history impacting present circumstances, no doubt—but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she shifts her speech forward feeling confident she is wearing down little Red’s layers, hitting the crux of the issue where it hurts the most. The heart.

“You don’t wish to believe it was Edward who did _this_ —” Fish gestures to the file then back to herself with a simple flick of her wrist, “—and neither do I. It is frightening to be made aware of the unknown, frightening when you realize the person you love is no longer the person you love.”

Life experience allows Fish the skill to rid herself from this confusion, to no longer be a slave to it but to remain in control, with eyes wide open. Experience is something Fish has under her belt, but she finds herself lacking when it comes to dealing with Edward. It is an undeniable fact that she doesn’t know him very well, leaving her at an impasse. Clarity stems from clarification. Her time spent observing Edward is not nearly enough to detail the empty pages in her mind.

Little Red—as she is now appropriately nicknamed by Fish—has certainly given her much to think about. Edward believing he was the perpetrator in the massacre case is something Fish cannot push to the side. Undoubtedly, this is a matter she has to investigate further. Blind cannot lead the blind and there are questions little Red is overlooking due to her close proximity to the subject matter. She is too entangled in the crux of the issue to get a clear reading.

Lowering her voice to a softer setting, Fish leans back in her chair and rests her fingers beneath her jaw.

“My dear, _love_ has the ability to skew perception, it is the biggest deceiver of all. You love Edward, you love the Riddler, to _you_ they are two parts of the same man, to others they are scarcely different. What you have failed to take into account is who he is to himself. Edward wears his masks, metaphorically and literally, but with these masks come layers and in light of the alterations you detailed…how many layers does he have?”

Unlocking her desk cabinet, Fish withdraws the Riddler’s file and plucks out two photographs: one of the Riddler and the other a recent image of Edward she has scrounged up. Placing them atop the massacre document, Fish slides it across her desk and swallows back a sigh. “Does he retain, revert, or bury these aspects of himself once his mentors are through with him? Is Edward still the man you first met or is that another lie you are believing?”

With a heavy breath, Fish tosses the question marked card on top of the pile in symbolism of the point she is attempting to make.

“Well,” Kristen starts, crossing her wrists and leaning forward, “we’re having an ideological battle here, it seems.” Touching a finger to her chin, she tips her head up, pouting her lips. “I wonder, can only one of us be right, and only one of us wrong? Or is it more complex than that?”

Grabbing both pictures and the question mark ‘calling card’ off the desk, Kristen reclines, swinging her foot with her knees perched on each other. She flicks between them like they’re playing cards and she’s considering her next move—which card has the highest value? Which should she give up? And which should she keep up her sleeve?

“Just like you and me, Eddie is never truly free of the… _influence_ others have had over him.” Kristen looks up pointedly over her glasses, fixing Fish with a hard stare. “It’s not only you who can read others. What you’ve said says a _lot_ about who you are—what you’ve seen.” Without a note of mockery or condescension, she asks Fish, “Sounds like I’m not the only one who has been hurt by someone—” _Many_ someones, most likely; these problems are rarely rare occurrences, in Kristen’s experience, but there’s often one that’s worse than all the rest, “What, did the big bad wolf sneak up on you, too?”

That earns her a glare. It’s deserved, yet it feels like a hot knife stab to the gut. It’s not a good sign that for some reason, Kristen wants positive reactions from this woman (who could easily become a serious problem in Kristen’s life now that she knows so much about her) more than she wants to get the upper hand in their conversation anymore.

Kristen falters again, her spirits sagging. It feels as if she’s caught her own bluff every time this woman makes her walk into her own realizations. How does she manage to _do that_? It’s Kristen’s fault; she can’t stand the long, awkward pauses, and she blathers her way through them.

“Look, I’m staying by his side.” _I owe him that much, for everything he’s done for me when I didn’t deserve it, so long ago_ , Kristen wants to say, but it seems too personal to admit. “You still don’t get it. I know perfectly well he and I both wear masks. I don’t—”

Fish rolls her eyes and grins again, shaking her head softly as she waves a hand through the air absently, her elbow perched on the armrest.

Why is this so impossible! Kristen’s had enough blunders over the course of this journey, yet this is her most difficult battle yet! She considers retorting Fish’s statements with a comment about Oswald, but it sounds hypocritical coming from her. So he, in a sense, sliced Eddie’s neck all up; it was self-defense, Eddie has a problem with self-harm as it is, he caused his own injury, and for heaven’s sake, the damn file clerk literally saved her life.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Kristen tries to stomp down the desire to start yelling _What do you want from me?_ and other pointless questions like that. She can’t afford to have a fit.

“I know you think you care about him because you want to save every little lost cause you set your eyes on,” Kristen frowns, pooling the photos and card in her lap, rubbing the edge of the green cardboard between her thumb and nail. “I can tell you even feel that way about me.” She smiles. “You say you don’t know me, but you just figured out my name. That’s something.”

“Of course Edward isn’t the same person I met. He was an annoying freak who thought he needed to give me presents constantly. He was weird and rude and he drove me to anger constantly. But he changed. And so have I. And I’ll keep loving him, even if I don’t understand what he’s become, because…because we both know he wants to change. He doesn’t want this anymore. I know you know what that kind of bond feels like. To know you’ll stay connected to someone even as they leave your life. Even if the leaving is only metaphorical.”

Kristen rubs her heels together, and folds her wrists under her knees. “Thank you for your concern, Captain,” she says softly. There’s too much truth in what Fish has said for Kristen to not have actually been touched by it—she is, very much so. The fact that she doesn’t have anyone to talk to like this has only now made itself abundantly clear. _I’m still that alone?_ Kristen realizes.

Her own ego doesn’t even fight her on that fact. It’s the truth.

“And thank you for trying to answer my questions,” Kristen says, raising her head to meet Fish’s eyes once again. “You’re right, you know. I probably should have tried honesty first.” Smiling in a flat line, Kristen weaves her eyes side to side as she exhales. “I’ll consider what you’ve said if you investigate Ed’s own self-accusation.”

Rising, she places the photos back on Fish’s desk. “When I come back to find out what you’ve found, I’ll even make an appointment. Give your station’s errand boy a call first—” Kristen winks. “He and I _actually_ happen to know each other.”

“I do believe Oswald has been quite preoccupied with your _brother_ as of late. He might not be around to assist you,” Fish quips. An amused smile plays on her lips as the redhead’s brow twitches. Filing that tell away for a later date, Fish plucks one of her own _calling cards_ from the pile and holds it out towards Red between two fingers. “If you wish to check in, call me. There’s little use getting mixed up with my staff, after all a _dead_ woman wants to remain inconspicuous.”

The two women stare at each other in silent interaction before Red straightens with a shake of her head, swishing her hair as she snatches up the card and makes for the exit without another word.

In the seconds following the woman’s departure, Fish returns to her flask, head tilting back, swallowing down its entire contents. She is more than ready to head home, to put this day and all its questions in the rearview mirror and return to it tomorrow with a level head. This is what she would do if she _wasn’t_ the captain of the GCPD and had to babysit a bunch of officers who require her attention every five minutes. It was a wonder her meeting with Red wasn’t interrupted. She was certain Victor would have—

“Yo, Captain?”

_Speak of the devil and who shall appear? His annoying little cousin._

“What is it, Zsasz? This better be important!” Fish barks, slamming down her flask on the desk, feeling the nigglings of a migraine brewing in her temples.

“Who was the girl?”

“ _Really?_ ” Fish deadpans, eyebrow raised. _That’s_ what this is about, someone caught Victor’s eye— _not that it was difficult_ —and he thought it pertinent to come badger her about it. In the past ten years, Fish has regrettably bore witness to Victor’s oddly successful seduction attempts. She can’t understand how people find him charming enough to spend time with, let alone be his bed partner and she is beyond wasting the energy on attempting to do so. Rolling her eyes, Fish massages her temple.and huffs, “You’re not her type, Zsasz. Best give up now.” 

“What a shame,” Victor drawls, staring blankly in the direction little Red skipped off.

“Alright, that’s it. Out, Zsasz, get out. The station is _not_ a place to pick up dates” she hisses as she rises to her feet, storming after him with her coat billowing behind her. Victor, like the child he is, scurries around the room, laughing boisterously. _How is_ he _my best detective?_ He rolls across the floorboards and skips over chairs before planting himself atop her desk, standing tall with a proud smile. Fish grits her teeth and glares at him with a hand on hip.

“Now, Captain, why is it that _you_ get to have all the fun and deny the rest of us gratification. You keep a beautiful woman locked inside your office for a significant length of time. People are going to talk, so how about we quell those rumors now. Was it business…or _pleasure_?”

 _Why have I been cursed with him? What did I ever do to deserve this?_ Fish’s fingers twitch over the clasp holding her gun in place. Victor smirks, lips pressed tightly together, catching her actions and replicating them.

“Are we going to play, Fish? It’s been years since either of us have had a challenge.”

Breathing in sharply through her nose, Fish shakes her head. Opting for a less fatal means of attack, she picks up the nearest item to her person and tosses it in Victor’s direction, narrowly missing his head.

“Get _out_!” she commands and surprisingly enough Victor does as told, only instead of jumping down like a _normal_ person…he backflips.

Darting out a hand, Fish nabs him by the ear, digging in her painted nails and drags him out of the room. She shoves him towards his desk and steps forward to the railing, hands clasping it tightly.

“Attention!” Fish shouts from the gantry and all eyes flick in her direction, a captive audience lie in waiting. “To all those _desperate_ enough to seek an escape from the department or— **no** , not _you_ , Alvarez, you’re locked up for a reason, and seeing as it was, again, _intentional_ that you were caught for your petty crimes, you’re in there to _stay_.” Fish stares exasperatedly at the criminal in the cage, Alvarez shrugging back in response, pitiful frown on his face. Her nose crinkles in disgust before returning her attention back to her staff. “The person who can keep Victor Zsasz silent and preferably away from me for the remainder of the afternoon will garner themselves three days paid leave. Have at it.”

With a wave of her hand, Fish pivots on her heel and departs, slamming the door to her office closed behind her.

~~~

There’s one person left for Kristen to look to for answers, rumors, hints, _anything_ useful—

Well. There’s two, but…

She’s on the cross-town train, half-eavesdropping on the people around her, half-focused on her phone, typing out aborted message after another to Valerie, her thoughts sloshing around in her head as much as the train seems to weave side-to-side as it flies forward. The pathetic costume she wore to the GCPD is long gone, even down to her glasses. Something about wearing any part of it is too much of an embarrassing reminder of the strange encounter she had with the police captain. It’s nice to literally let her hair down, return to her now-daily choice of treasured heels, to blend back into the city with nothing but her red hair to mark her as unique. Absolutely worth the trip back home to change.

Her phone dims, timing out from being untouched, and she taps a button to wake it back up.

Shouldn’t she just ask at this rate? It’s only that there’s no way to ask that Kristen doesn’t feel odd saying. Even if the attack Ed spoke of was set up by an assassin, hell, even if it was Valerie herself, it’s not like her code would allow her to reveal it. Maybe later Kristen can ask her, maybe after she finds out what the last target knows—

Sighing, she rakes her hands through her loose waves, her phone perched on her crossed legs, the few words she’s typed staring back at her. Hell, at this rate, she’s probably not on Valerie’s radar anymore; they haven’t seen each other in weeks and barely stayed in touch. It shames Kristen to realize she’s become so consumed with the need to solve this mystery that’s captured her interest so fully that she’s neglected every other relationship in her life. If Ed—

Wait, when was the last time she spoke to him?

 _Oh god_ , she blinks slowly, realizing she has _no idea_ what he’s been up to all this time. She knows he’s still hyper-fixated on Oswald; she gets the occasional text about it, but had she replied to any of them? Fearing encouraging his nonsense, probably not. He didn’t even know half of the dirt she’d been able to dig up on Cobblepot, and that was a side project on a boring afternoon she’d planned as a “day off.”

Dashing off the train at the next stop, she runs to catch a taxi, telling the driver to let her off a block or so from Ed’s place. No point bothering to text him, she’s not that far away and this is the fastest route. She has to see him!

“Eddie!” she knocks on his door, switching to pounding on it when she doesn’t hear a response. “Ed! Ed!” she punctuates each call with another _whack_ on the wood, staring at the little metal numbers over the peephole. _Please let him be ok, how have I let this happen, I got so consumed I forgot to_ be here _for him_ —

Ed frowns at the racket behind him. _What’s going on?_ He hardly ever has surprise visitors, factually never and certainly not one sounding so demanding, pounding on his door as though they rule over his life. Detaching himself from the stove, switching off the burners, Ed strolls over to the door, pace quickening as he takes note of Kristen’s distressed voice. _Kristen!_ He hasn’t heard her like this since—

Unlocking the door, Ed slides it open and his hands immediately fall to Kristen’s shoulders. He draws her inside, eyes running up and down her frame, searching for injury, but finds little more than a face contorted in distress. “Kristen, are you okay? What is it?” Ed question as she gazes unblinkingly, unsettling him further. Kristen’s demeanor is far from the effervescent behaviour he is accustomed to. “Is this another _Tom_ thing?”

“What? _No_! That’s—that’s _not_ going to happen again, Eddie, you know that!” Oh, he’s so frustrating sometimes! “Where’s your scarf?” She reaches for his collar, too high to see his neck properly, but he arches away. “Sorry, sorry,” she says softly, forgetting that sometimes he needs warning before being touched.

“You look alright, though,” she says, relieved, reaching up to fix his bangs, motioning with her fingers her intention, waiting for his nod of approval before she fusses over him. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around, but you won’t _believe_ all the interesting things _I’ve_ been up to,” she pout-smiles, wiggling her head in mischievousness. “Honestly, I’ve barely gotten started!” she brags, as Ed drops his hands from hovering around her arms. He looks confused, probably unsure about her attitude. That’s when she sees his hand.

“Ohhh no, _what_ is _that_ ,” she demands, pointing, nostrils flaring. “Did—did Oswald—”

“I—I,” Ed’s tongue proves itself to be useless as he stares down at his knuckles, speckled with scabs. It has been a over a week and his wounds are well on their way to healing. It is only an unfortunate circumstance that Kristen has happened upon him injured again. Tucking his hands under his arms, hiding them from prying eyes, Ed retreats a step with a shake of his head. “It wasn’t Oswald. It was…well, come with me.”

Ed makes for the bathroom, head bowed, feet shuffling slowly. He is unable to voice what occurred, not wanting to relive those memories, to slip back inside the depth of his mind which lie dormant since the altercation. Although his mental snap arose in response to Oswald’s dismissal, that isn’t something Ed is keen to share with his friend. _She is too suspicious of him as it is._ Ed balls his hands into fists and tightens his arms, squashing them further into his body. Kristen has no need to be so distrusting of Oswald. He did what he had to…besides, they were better now, at least that’s what Ed hopes, as they haven’t spoken in a few days.

Resting his head on the doorframe, Ed averts his gaze from the mirror. Recent times have garnered him a silent mind, something Ed has been relishing in. It is a blessing he rarely experiences, only now to have it disturbed in the wake of Kristen’s impromptu visit. As she comes to stand beside him in the doorway, Ed nods towards the mirror. “It wasn’t Oswald,” he repeats, “it was… _me._ ” _The darker part of myself, the monster._

“Oh, Edward…” Kristen breathes, looking at the smashed-up mirror. This is exactly what she was afraid would happen. _Why wasn’t I a better friend? I talk of loving him like family and yet I wasn’t even here for him…_

This time, maybe the first time since they’d become close, Ed’s had to face his demons alone.

 _All because you were determined to prove there’s nothing wrong with him. Wouldn’t want to have to take the blame for not noticing he’s cracking, would you? Now there’s this to deal with. Well, as if you needed more proof he’s unstable_ , the dark part of her subconscious seethes.

“No, no, no, this isn’t right. I should have been here, I’m sorry, Eddie.” She taps the inside of his wrist with two of her fingers and he nods, dropping his hands, letting her hold them. The first thing she does is look at it closely, blinking to try to toss the tears forming out of her contact lenses. “Are you putting the ointment Lee gave you on this, too?”

“Kristen, I do have a working knowledge of basic—”

“I know, I know you do,” she murmurs, biting her lip. “Come on, let’s go back out here, bathrooms are never a good place for you.” She guides him out of the doorframe with the best warm, comforting face she can muster; Ed’s forte is most definitely not facial expressions but he will usually always give her a grin, sometimes a beaming smile, in return for one of her own. He does this time and her heart warms on the spot. Things are going to be ok. She’s here now.

“Come on, tell me something that will make me laugh, like what’s going on with file-boy.” She leads him towards the couch. “Is he…” she falters. “Is he…you know…still a _thing_?” Oh, what if she’s really blown it now? Maybe the mirror is still related to Oswald-drama…why is she losing her edge lately? Normally she can navigate a conversation better than this, but she’s been off since meeting Fish. Before she can formulate an apology, she turns to face Ed and he envelops her in a tight hug, locking his arms around her firmly, unskilled still at simple affection but so earnest and sweet. She clings back, cooing his name reassuringly.

“I’ve missed you, Kristen,” Ed presses into the side of her head, holding her close with his palms flat across her back. He hadn’t realized how lacking his life was without her until now.

Over the past month, prior to Oswald’s attack, Ed had been overly preoccupied with his attempts to navigate his ever-evolving relationship with Oswald. As a vast majority of his mental faulties were engaged, focused on one sole issue, Ed scarcely even paid notice to the disappearance of his only friend. _What does that say about me? Kristen said not to lose myself to Oswald and that is exactly what I did._ He sent her the occasional text, but soon enough those ceased to occur, in the wake of no response.

Ed admonishes himself for not making more of an effort. Kristen is the one stability in his life, someone he can always count on…even if she disappears for weeks on end without a word. What if she was injured or…or _killed_? He would have been oblivious due to his single mindedness. It didn’t help that the recurrent altercations with his internal self saw the last remaining tendrils of Ed’s mind scattered, further distancing him from his friend. Thankfully in the wake of Captain Mooney’s and Oswald’s praise, the voice has been silenced. Hopefully for good.

Ed tightens his hold around Kristen and rests his cheek atop her head. His eyes fall closed and a relaxed smile forms in the wake of newfound happiness. She may have disappeared from the world at the same time Ed immersed himself in another, but they are together now. _All is well._

After an indeterminable amount of time, Ed draws back from the hug and takes Kristen’s hands in his own, no longer feeling the need to hide. “Five weeks is an awfully long time,” Ed says, shuffling towards the couch, guiding her down with him.

“It is,” Kristen says, smiling.

“It is,” Ed mirrors as he settles himself on the couch.

“Oh!” Ed bounces on the cushion, slapping his legs in excitement before tucking them underneath him. “Guess what?” Kristen tilts her head and for a split second her eyes go unfocused as she ponders Ed’s question but in all his joy, he bounces again and waves it away, hands flapping about in the air, recentering her attention back on himself. “Oh second thought, don’t bother. You won’t be able to.”

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Ed straightens and smiles proudly. “I haven’t seen or spoken to Oswald in eight days.”

“That’s…that’s… _wonderful,_ Ed?” She ventures, trying to guess what the hell he means. “You’re saying that’s a good thing, right?” Nodding fervently, his beaming smile stays in place. She cocks her head, wondering what’s changed. _Ohh_. Suddenly it hits her what’s going on.

“You got over him! Oh, Ed, that _is_ wonderful. I’m so glad—I was worried about how long you were going to be hung up on him!” Now, hopefully Ed will stop with this desire to fundamentally change himself, and once she proves who was responsible for the massacre, things will truly be back to normal. Red and Riddler can return to the lives they had before!

“I—” Ed pauses mid sentence, mouth slightly agape, mind perplexed. _What? Over Oswald…_

“No. No no no, I’m not—I miss him and I think about him all the time.” Ed relaxes into the chair and rests his head on the back of it, smiling at the ceiling. The pads of his fingers come to trace the mark on his neck; it’s something he finds himself doing any time Oswald crosses his thoughts, a physical connection to the man despite his absence. His stomach flutters as he presses firmer. Oswald is very much on mind. With strong will, Ed has resisted the urge to contact him. Oswald specifically stated the last time he was in hospital that Ed was not to check up on him, that he would be contacted as per Oswald’s discretion, so those are the instructions he follows.

“I’ve never been so _bored_ ,” he laments, smile still intact, “usually I’d have the Riddler to distract me, or you…but I know this is what he wants, this is what’ll please him.” Ed giggles as his hand comes to rest over his beating heart. “He _was_ pleased with me the last we met, although it might have been the head contusion.”

 _Good god, is Ed smitten!_ Kristen can’t help but marvel at it. There’s something so much more… _tangible_ about the way he speaks of Oswald, versus his other various one-sided crushes. Ed discussing liking someone was always about how it made _him_ feel, not the other person—never the other person.

She so badly wants to ask why he smashed his hand up, if things are so good, but the chances of setting him off into a downward spiral at the reminder aren’t worth solving the mystery.

Still, all the unknowns nag at her.

“Hang on, so he…smashed his head and he’s happy _not_ having you talk to him?” Ed nods. “Goodness, I hope that’s not connected…” she rubs her thumb over the knuckles of her other hand. Is he not _allowed_ to Riddler anymore? She frowns slightly, trying to poker face but failing at hiding her disappointment. Being torn between the hope that Ed would stay the way she knows him, and the fear that he will change—either into some kind of pet of Oswald’s and next thing she knows he’ll be working at the GCPD, or the very potential nightmare that he becomes a maniacal killer, one so unhinged that he isn’t her friend anymore. The dilemma feels like a precipice; her friend’s fate seems to be a tightrope balancing act at the moment.

She blinks, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. “Whatever makes you happy, Eddie. I’m happy when you’re doing well. Now, aren’t you going to ask what I’ve been up to?” Quirking an eyebrow, she grins a chester cat smile. “I’ve met some of the _leaders_ of our illustrious city, including a woman I think you know already—Captain Mooney?”

“I know Ca—”

Ed narrows his brows and drops his hand, making moves to sit upright. This is surprising news. What is Kristen doing seeking out Gotham’s leaders? With the lifestyle they are… _she_ is involved in, one tends to avoid the figureheads, _especially_ Captain Mooney. Criminals don’t tend to fare well when they cross her path. _She has a great track record,_ Ed thinks somewhat admiringly before flicking that thought away. Kristen is beside him, she survived the encounter unscathed and without incarceration…unless that is why she was missing for so long.

“Under _what_ circumstances did you meet her?” Ed questions, wondering if he should have a talk with the captain on Kristen’s behalf. “What have you got yourself involved in?” Reaching out a hand to pick up her own, Ed strokes his thumb across Kristen’s knuckles. The two worlds they were traversing were awfully apparent to him now. His desire to change, born out of necessity, segregated him from his only friend. _I will fix us. I promise._

Nudging his glasses up his nose, Ed stares attentively at Kristen. The tone of her voice preludes a tale Ed is keen to hear.

“Oh, I sought her out. Stalked her just a smidgen, I suppose.” She squints, making a “little bit” gesture with her index finger and thumb. She playfully pushes back on Ed’s palm with her fist.

“You would’ve been impressed! I even broke into the mayor’s office, had a nice conversation with her, too. Did you know she knows who I am? Anyway, that also went well, though I’m glad I didn’t break into Fish’s office, I don’t think _that_ would have gone well.” Ed’s eyes go wide. “Well, don’t look so shocked! I’m not the only one with friends in high places.” Sashaying her head, Kristen smirks. “Leslie helped me out. She’s not simply a club owner, she’s a _liaison_. I knew about her connection to the city’s assassins, but you wouldn’t believe who else she’s put me on the trail of!” _And it’s all for you,_ she keeps to herself. _For all you’ve done for me in my darkest hours, now is the time to show how appreciative I am for a friend like you._

“So I have one last plan,” Kristen confesses, shimmying her head closer to Ed, as if she’s about to tell him a secret. “I actually could use your help for it. You still have the suits I picked out for you, right?”

Raising his shoulders Ed shuffles back an inch, away from Kristen and her plans. He brings his hands close to his chest and picks at the slow healing scabs on his knuckles. Two months ago he would have jumped to his feet and rushed to his closet, bright-eyed and excited at the prospect of a new game. Now her scheming smile fills him with trepidation. Things have changed, _he_ has changed. Can Kristen see that, or does she not wish to?

Dropping his chin to his chest Ed can’t shake the niggling thought that says this might tear them apart. He can’t walk down that line again. He’s not safe…to anyone. _What if she pushes?_ Ed worries, flicking through various scenarios in his head, as fast as the neurons can carry them. _What if Kristen gets tangled and twisted up in my darkness, what if I hurt her?_ Ed refuses to let himself fall that far. He won’t become one of Kristen’s personal demons. He won’t!

“Always beside you, through thick and thin, not through body, but spirit within. What am I? Ed recites the riddle into the fabric of his shirt as his fingers slip beneath the frames of his glasses. He presses them on his eyes and watches black bleed into red. “Friends,” Ed utters into his palms when met with only silence. It’s something he never wishes to lose. Kristen was his first true friend and although they began on rocky grounds, it soon solidified into something unshakeable…at least that was what Ed believed, until now.

“Kristen,” Ed says her name almost beggingly as he drops his hands, “you and I…we’ve been friends for many years. You are my nearest and dearest but—” rising to his feet, Ed paces before her, fingers elongated, rattling in the air. “—I am _finally_ on the path to something great. I saved Oswald’s life,” he punctuates with a huff of laughter and a smile, “a-and Captain Mooney said she was proud of me. Of _me!_

Licking his lips, Ed blinks down at Kristen, only to find his grin slipping at the sight of her relatively blank mask. _She has always been stilled at those._ Dropping to the floor, Ed places the palms of his hands on her knees and squeezes gently. “This _thing_ you need me to do, the plan you require my assistance with…it’s not going to result in anything _bad_ , is it? I’ve been good lately, I haven’t hurt anyone, not even when I could have. I don’t want to mess that up as there are people I don’t want to disappoint.”

 _I don’t know what to do_ , Ed worries.

Kristen pushes her fingernails against her lips, hand curved, chin balanced on her palm.

He saved Oswald’s _life?_ What a strange web all of them weave.

Her eyes almost prick with tears. Something in her gut is stinging; it’s clear they’re both changing, and it hurts to recognize that it’s apart. Only a few short moments ago Kristen thought things were just as she’d left them a few weeks ago, but that couldn’t be farther from the reality they now find themselves in. When has Ed ever flinched away from her like that, recoiled at the thought of a plot he would’ve been impressed she’d concocted in the past, even if it was far from his personal style?

“I’m not…I…what I have in mind isn’t anything bad. Not this time.” _Maybe a little embarrassing, but_ …. It takes everything in her to not reach out and hold Ed’s hands.

Her subconscious crackles with jolts of conflicting emotions. _You can’t even figure out who he is anymore! Why are you so stupid! Don’t touch him—don’t involve yourself with him, you IDIOT! Why can’t you learn? Why are you so dependent? Look at him, he isn’t loyal in the slightest!_

She clutches her eyes shut for a split second, trying to balance herself. _I don’t want to think about these things—I don’t want to be paranoid or dependent…_

“I’m doing this all for you, remember?” she says.

Ed looks lost, pursing his lips tightly.

“You don’t remember our last conversation, do you?” She looks down, sorrow pulling her low. “I’ve been trying to prove you didn’t go off the deep end, like you accused yourself of. I wanted to save you from…from what haunts you and I—I didn’t consider that you—”

Swallowing, she finally pats the back of his hand, a brief motion, lightly, with a nod. “I’m proud of you, too, you know. You’re doing something admirable, even if I don’t understand. You’re trying to save yourself, too. And Oswald, I suppose. What happened to him? What did you save him from?”

Ed smiles solemnly as he drops to his rear, arms coming to rest on top of his knees as he holds them close to his body. The emotions in Kristen’s eyes are something Ed perceives relatively quickly, but with little clue how to remedy them, he launches into answering her questions.

“I—eight days ago—” _the same day I hurt my hands,_ “—I saved Oswald from the rerun duo. If I didn’t get there in the exact moment I did…” Ed trails off with a shudder, disliking the way the possibility of Oswald’s death makes him feel. Sick, hollow, _lost_. “Jim had him up against the wall of a filthy alley, with his oaf of a partner jesting from the sidelines, completely unaware of my arrival until I held my blade to his neck.” That is a memory that brings a smile to Ed’s face as he lolls his head to the side. People have always underestimated him, taking first appearance as an accurate measure, but his smarts were a point of difference between them. Although Ed might not have the brawn, he is graced with an overly alert mind, one he uses to his advantage whenever possible.

“I called Foxy—speaking of, he requested to see me soon,” Ed adds, reminded of the message he received only hours ago. Fox stated he wanted to check in and that, when available, Ed should pop by for a game of chess and a long overdue chat. It has been months since they last saw each other, what with Ed being rather preoccupied with Oswald and Fox…Fox continuing to dabble in things Ed was now estranged from. Still, despite the length of time that had elapsed, Ed is looking forward to seeing his old friend. Just because he is changing, doesn’t mean he is willing to toss aside one of the very few people who enjoys his company.

Shaking his head, Ed refocuses his eyes and recenters back onto the conversation, embarrassed that he has yet again drifted into his mind.

“Sorry,” he apologizes with a lopsided grin, “I… _ah_ , where was I? Oh yes…when the _barbarians_ failed to release Oswald, Foxy as predicted, sided with me and called them off. From there I escorted Oswald to the GCPD—he gave me permission to touch him again, Kristen. He explicitly stated it.”

Ed ducks his head with a smile, recalling the feeling of Oswald pressed against his side. He didn’t want to let him go, despite the circumstances Ed relished in their brief moment of closeness, however convention dictated he must. Peering up over the frames of his glasses, Ed connects his eyes with Kristen’s and a frown marrs his face at the realization of her disappearance.

“You don’t need to continue trying to save me. After five arduous weeks, I’m certain you’ve found little to prove my innocence, because we both know I’m not. Those people died by my hands…but I—I’m getting better now,” Ed says with a sniffle, “so let’s move passed this delusion and onto something new. What is this thing you need my help with and why does it involve my suits?”

Kristen starts and stops. She tries to speak again and does the same. No, she’s found no proof that Eddie didn’t do the massacre, but her new connections to Kathryn clued her into how much she still had to discover in their city, the long talk with Fish gave her hope (even as it gave her pause, as well…), and there was _still_ the possible mob connections to work out, with the opportunity to talk to the “princess” of Gotham so close, Kristen couldn’t give up now! She was just getting started.

“Ed…” Kristen wanted to ask him how sure he was about all of this, but the words wouldn’t move past her mouth. Hearing that he was involved with Fox again was troubling. What if he knew something about Ed’s behavior? The thought of having to talk to Lucius Fox gave her shivers—he seemed like such a nice, quiet man, but she always felt like he could see right through her, and there was no denying his power; Ed’s involvement, and Kristen’s second-hand, because of it, only stood as confirmation of the fact to her, even if many in Gotham felt that he was no longer a powerful player, assuming only because the Waynes went down that everyone involved with them was useless, too, was an ignorant mistake.

“Will you go out to the club with me? Particularly, The Sirens?” Kristen asks. “There’s someone I want to meet, but I don’t want to go by myself. I think it’ll make a…better impression if I seem…unavailable. How about tonight? Are you busy?” No, of course he’s not, but she wants to still give him a feeling of choice.

Ed looks pensive. “But Oswald—”

“ _Oswald_ again! Here, how about you just…bring him along. That’ll make you feel comfortable, right? If he monitors your every move or…whatever.”

Ed’s mouth drops open. Kirsten’s being serious—it really doesn’t matter to her. Cobblepot’s an ex-con himself, and to his perspective, she’s only going to look like she’s vying for a famous woman’s attentions.

Ahh, the luxury of her knowing who he is and he not knowing her! Exactly how Kristen likes her power dynamics when it comes to information and knowledge.

Ed ponders Kristen’s suggestion, pinching his bottom lip between his teeth. If Oswald joins them, then he would have someone watching over him, someone willing and prepared to pull him back should he step over the line or lose control. He’d have a failsafe. _Why couldn’t Kristen have been more succinct and said this was a reconnaissance mission?_ It would have served to dissuaded Ed’s concern and doubt, rather than leaving him to stew and suffer until clarification finally came. Kristen assures him their outing won’t involve any illegal activities, so he feels confident in restraining himself without Oswald’s assistance.

However, despite his resolve, the notion of seeing Oswald is titillating. After eight _long_ days of silence, Ed can’t deny the desire he has to be by his side; to see his smile and hear his voice, to lay eyes on him and bask in his presence. Time tends to make the heart grow fonder, yet Ed isn’t sure there is another level to what he feels for Oswald, for his feelings are already all-consuming, and if there is, he has yet to find the key to unlock it. Sitting around a quiet apartment with only the culinary arts to entertain him him has not accomplish anything. If Oswald won’t contact him, then Ed will have to reach out and Kristen’s suggestion of a visit to one of Gotham’s prominent clubs seems like the _perfect_ invitation.

“Okay,” Ed agrees after working through all his thoughts.

“Okay?” Kristen questions and Ed laughs, springing to his feet as he makes for his closet.

“I want to see him again—Oswald that is—and we—you, and I—are long overdue for some fun. When was the last time we drank together?” he calls out over his shoulder as he withdraws the two suits Kristen bought him a few years ago. Trailing his fingers down the dark green ensemble, he is reminiscent of the shade of Oswald’s eyes as they darkened with his ire. Ed grins. _It would pair nicely._ His attention then shifts the royal blue piece and Ed becomes conflicted, so he turns to Kristen for advice.

“Blue or green?”

Kristen grins, her lips curling in amusement. “Silly, the green one, of course!” Throwing her arms over the back of the couch, she rests her chin on her forearms and giggles with her mouth shut, the sound echoing through her. “I wouldn’t be mean enough to deny you your favorite color, not with you doing me a favor and all.”

There’s a long sleeve crop top tucked in the back of her closet for exactly these kinds of scenarios; pairing it with a black velvet skirt would match the collar on Ed’s suit…her eyes crinkle as her grin grows. It’s even _red_. Passing up an opportunity to capitalize on the joke inherent in their chosen _colors_ is too funny to ever pass up, besides, after Ed’s gotten a few drinks in, she knows he’ll lose his coat, allowing her to stand out compared to his plain white shirt. That settles it!

“But wear the tie from suit number two,” she points, and Ed follows her direction.

“You said to _never_ mix and match these, because, as you stated, sternly, I might add,” Ed looks directly at the ceiling, his face slightly sour. “I can’t be _trusted_ to pair up my own clothing—”

“ _And_ I’m here now to _give_ you direction,” Kristen interjects, causing Ed to chew on his lower lip as he thinks over the logic of that.

The other tie is a nice, deep purple, almost black. She’s always told him to tone down the green; it might be a fixation of his, but too much is too much! This would look nice and match her outfit. It makes him look a little less… _Riddlery_ , as well, which makes sense. He is, after all, turning over a new leaf.

“We’ll celebrate you _and_ Oswald’s heroics, and I’ll get my information and time with my dearest friend.” She tips her head onto her arms, content for now. “It’ll be a good time. I have a feeling it will be a productive night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, is anyone else shipping Fish and Kristen or is it just us?
> 
> Thank you all for reading❣ What did you think of Kristen's escapades? We both adore her and her determination. She's so incredibly caring and loyal, Eddie is lucky to have someone like her in his life.


	7. There's No Forgetting You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald battles with ethics when thoughts of Ed begin to consume him. He seeks counsel from Fish but doesn't receive any helpful answers. An unforeseen call from Ed lands him somewhere unexpected and thoughts of ethics quickly become the last thing on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! This chapter is the biggest one yet, so strap yourselves in and enjoy over 15k of 'Just One Look at You.'
> 
> This chapter has tidbits of foreshadowing and sees two new characters introduced; Barbra Kean and Jerome Valeska. There's a decent chunk of nygmobblepot too in here too, to make up for the lack the last chapter.
> 
> Happy reading!

Rocking from one foot to the other, Oswald hovers out of sight when he sees an all-too-familiar redhead storm out of Fish’s office and march towards the exit, her high ponytail swinging and tweed skirt swishing as she stomps. Hiding behind a cutaway in the wall, he peeks out, checking to see if she’s gone, before stepping back out, baffled to have seen her again, and _here_ , of all places. She’d been in Fish’s office; what had she been doing?

Protective panic hits Oswald in a cold wave, but dulls the moment he sees Fish emerge from her office, shouting at the staff, before returning to her office, slamming the door shut behind her. Thankful that the momentary fear that she’d hurt Fish was unfounded, Oswald feels grateful that she possesses some sense of ethics, or at least boundaries. Ed’s partner, while without clean hands herself, still seems to have no interest in random murders, like her counterpart does… _did_. She’d been accomplice to most of Ed’s murders, and had a small track record of her own kills, mostly other criminals, instead of those on the other side of the law or civilians, which showed an interesting and blatant lack of community with her own sort. There was clearly some kind of M.O. of her own at play; it probably was why she’d aligned herself with Ed, whose kills all fit a theme, though a drastically different one than hers. 

Returning to his desk, Oswald sighs, sinking into his seat. What a fantastic first day back at work. Everyone pretends nothing’s happened, certainly afraid how he would react if they _didn’t_ ; that wasn’t the problem, however—he wanted things that way. No, it’s that he keeps checking his cell phone all day, looking to see if he has any new messages, same as he’s been doing for the last eight days. 

Tipping his head, Oswald goes back to thinking about Ed for somewhere around the hundredth time that day, the memory of soft brown eyes, long lashes brushing against the smooth, taut skin of his cheekbones, his thin lips parted, exposing the pink of his mouth. What Oswald wouldn’t give to _push_ into that mouth of his; he thinks of Ed’s eyes fluttering shut, moaning softly as Oswald—

He shakes the thought away, biting the inside of his lip violently. These kinds of thoughts keep emerging, consuming him when he lets himself slip into this kind of _inappropriate_ fantasizing. The images are so vivid and powerful, Oswald feels an intense throbbing _want_ course through him; he stills out of shame for lacking the most basic control over this kind of thing.

 _Focus on something else. Work,_ Oswald tells himself.

He fumbles his phone open and fires off a text to Fish, asking if she’s alright, and if she wants to talk, he’s here.

“Oswald!”

He hears Fish bellows his name and he flinches.

“Get in here!”

After he’s made his way to her office and closed the door, he takes the chance to turn and ask, “Did you know that’s Edward’s partner? In crime,” he clarifies, in case it’s necessary.

Fish pinches the bridge of her nose, elbow balancing on the armrest as she and all but leers at Oswald from behind her hand. Clocking out early and leaving the GCPD early for once is beginning to look more and more like a choice she will have to take, if only to retain some sanity as she drowns herself in a bottle of… _anything_.

“Yes, I know who _she_ is. It’s not difficult to put together when the girl openly admits to being a criminal and is on the verge of tears, attempting to persuade me to…well, it doesn’t matter,” Fish says flippantly with a wave of her hand. She isn’t ready to divulge what she has learnt today—there are thoughts she has to decipher and catalogue before she relays anything to Oswald. After all, there is no use putting added pressure on him and his role in Edward’s life if the claims are unfounded. Criminals didn’t often have the most clarific mindset; this could very well be an over-exaggeration. However, despite that thought, Fish is determined to look into the issue. All claims, no matter how minimal or unrelated they appear to be, do not go uninvestigated. If there is a chance that Edward is the massacrist, then Fish wants to know.

“Sit down, Oswald,” Fish commands, inclining her head, eyes flicking to the seat directly in front of her desk. “Little Red and her fables are not the reason I called you in here.” Clearing her desk, shuffling the files to the side, Oswald does as instructed.

“You’ve been distracted today. Don’t go denying it, not to me.” Arching her brow, Fish lulls Oswald into silence before continuing. “You may think you are safe out there from my eyes but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Now, would you care to tell me what’s on in that head of yours, explain _why_ you are so unfocused, continually ducking your head or staring off into nothingness? I know your role here isn’t the most exciting one but I cannot pinpoint a time you have looked so disconnected from what is occurring around you.”

“I—” Oswald starts, and then freezes up. He can’t _possibly_ tell her what is consuming his thoughts—there’s no _one_ he can trust with that information! What he needs is a pep talk into how to _make it cease_. He already knows it’s _wrong_ , it’s _stupid_ , and the fact that he’s fixated on it now is only due to the still-fresh rush of feelings brought on by having his life saved, and of having those moments in the alleyway together of gentle, defenseless affection. Oswald is so touch-starved that apparently the slightest bit of _anything_ that could be classified as “intimacy” seems to have been enough to send his mind (and his hormones…) into a tailspin. He doesn't consider himself _young_ anymore; surely feelings like this were supposed to _stop_ at his age, not get _worse_.

Frankly, he’s never wanted someone with the intensity that he wants Ed. It’s not the first time he’s lusted after a man he knows better than to, it’s not even the first time he’s shared emotions and experiences akin to _loving_ someone. He’s not wholly inexperienced—there was Victor, not so many years ago, and ironically, the other Victor before _that_ , when Oswald was still almost a teen. A date here and there in between, an infatuation now and then. Nothing that prompted Oswald to abandon reality and be lost in his own fantasies. All this over _Edward Nygma_ , the man who had been the bane of his existence most of the last month or so. Why is fate so cruel?

Rubbing at his temples, Oswald tries to ask for help without confessing _anything_. “I’m still worried about my…er… _thoughts_ about Edward? About the ethics of all of this. Who am I to be considered trustworthy enough for him to safely place so much confidence in? It’s not that I’ve asked him to, it was clear from the inception that he’d gone and done it without my input or involvement, but it…plagues me to figure out how to…find the safe distance I should maintain.”

“After six week… _six weeks_ without reaching out, you come to me now regarding _ethics_?” Fish blinks slowly in Oswald’s direction. His ethical conundrums were the _last_ thing she expected to hear about today. She had considered that Oswald’s issues lie in his position, that he had grown disinterested with his role. It wouldn’t have been an unforeseen development; Oswald was always meant to be more than a mere paper pusher, only he hadn’t taken the time to discover his calling yet.

Beyond exasperated with the turn of events, Fish slams the palm of her hand on her desk and huffs. “Oswald, correct me if I am wrong but wasn’t it _you_ who came to me last week saying that you wanted to break Ed’s…and I quote ‘ _pretty_ little jaw?’ That is _nothing_ compared to what we two have experienced. Do you not remember the time we had each other by the throats or the countless other circumstances that resulted in physical violence? Sometimes ethics aren’t all that matters, it’s the knowledge that you are doing the wrong thing for the right reasons that gives you comfort and pushes you forward. Things are not always so black and white.”

“Th—” Oswald stutters, alarmed by her sharpness. “Th-the times we _attacked_ each other were entirely my fault, I was…inexcusable back then, absolutely intolerable in my insolence, and…and you _know_ how much I regret it all.” He rubbed at his face, having to now recall the worst of it. The time he’d broken out of his cell and tried to escape was by far the worst; that started with him getting caught by her and they had an all-out _brawl_ ; he hit her with the makeshift weapon he’d nabbed when he tore out of his prison. Blow after blow did nothing to faze her, it just sent her into a seething rage, and by the time she lunged up off the floor and caught him by the neck, driving her nails into his flesh, they were both screaming in animalistic anger and pain, struggling to get the upper hand.

It was her words that cut through to him during that time, and it was the only reason they were both still alive to experience this moment.

“That was so different!” he insists, waving his hand. “First off all, I _needed_ to be taken down, truthfully, it was the greatest favor anyone’s ever done me. Secondly, we…I hate our history of violence but we…our relationship isn’t contingent on…” he rolls his hands forward, waiting for Fish to get his point without him having to articulate it. Oh, he might be a confident enough man to take charge in most aspects of life and just get done what needs to be done, but talking about something like this is _never_ going to be something he’s comfortable with. He shouldn’t be asking about this. He should get up and leave, _right now_ ; the sheer fact he feels such powerful resistance every time he considers how this would even _work out_ lets him already know the answer is ‘it won’t.’

“The kind of relationship dictates whether some mistakes are forgivable and others aren’t,” he finishes, lamely, not even sure what he’s still trying to articulate.

Leaning back in her chair, Fish swivels, rotating side to side. She is unsettled. After her frantic morning, followed by her talk with Red and Victor’s _childish_ antics, the last place Fish wants to be is here. It’s as plain as that. _Anywhere_ would be preferable, but Oswald and his concerns are something Fish promised she would make herself always be available to hear.

“I’m struggling to understand your point, Oswald. What brought about all this questioning? You didn’t seem to put out the last time you saw Edward. If I recall correctly, you _wanted_ him,” Fish pauses in jest to raise her brows, feeling somewhat smug at the slight embarrassment on Oswald’s face, “… _closer_. What the two of you went through only further strengthens your connection, increasing the lines of trust and respect on _both_ sides. Edward placed his trust in you bec—Oswald, _why_ are we discussing this? Surely you know all of this by now. Have things not been going well? I have noticed the lack of Edward around the station, did something happen?”

At the sight of Oswald’s agape mouth, Fish crinkles her brows, rolls her eyes and curls her lip. “Go on, spit it out!”

Oswald sighs and forces a few more words out. “I…I don’t know if other people…see it…I,” he pauses, gaping. “I can tell Ed has feelings for me. Romantically,” he clarifies. “Of course, I knew he was physically attracted to me from our first interaction—er, the…the first one I remember. When I woke up in his bed.” Oswald cringes at the terrible way that _sounds_ in this context. “Back then, I did also believe he was going to kill me, so perhaps my perceptions are—were—are still incorrect.”

He’s slowly sinking in on himself, his shoulders and head sagging down. “This…his ‘crush,’” Oswald makes the motions with his fingers of offsetting his words in pretend-quotes, then rolls his eyes, “I hoped it would die out because I cannot see how it would be _ethical_ for him to be _that_ enamored with me. Idolizing me is already one of his poorest choices. So, you see—”

Fish shakes her head, making the same face as before but exaggerated now. Oswald scowls, frustrated with everything.

“I can’t have a relationship with him,” Oswald explains. “Right?”

“Do you… _want_ a relationship with him?”

Fish forces herself to remain even-tempered despite Oswald’s overall avoidance and stuttering. He knows it infuriates her and for him to lapse into that unintentionally tells a tale far grander than Oswald is able to. When his reaction to her question—pinched eyebrows, shifting eyes, gaping mouth—is added into the equation, Fish is certain, with minimal doubt that the answer is a resounding _yes._ Oswald likes Edward. Oh, if she could laugh she would but it would be almost mirthless. _How didn’t I see this coming?_

Bringing her hand to her mouth, Fish scratches a nail across her bottom lip and stares at Oswald in bewilderment. _When did this even begin?_ she wants to ask. The last time they spoke about Edward, Oswald was ready to put an end to his mentorship, only to now stroll into her office, questioning ethics, all in the name of a relationship. A part of Fish thinks that she shouldn’t be surprised at the turn of events, not after the way both men called desperately for each other as though they were on opposite sides of a ravine and not separated by a few mere feet, she should have been able to piece together _something._ Her perception skills are sorely lacking as of late if she _somehow_ managed to overlook this new development.

Dropping her palm to her desk, Fish taps her fingers in a repetitive motion. There’s a burning question on her mind, one brighter than all the others, so with a shake of her head, she speaks. “Do you even know _how_ to be in a relationship? In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never been in a single one.”

Oswald nervously smoothes his pants down, running his hands up and down his thighs to straighten the material. “I— _heh_ , in fact that’s—oh _god_ ,” he mumbles, dropping his head into his hand. She’s right—he’s never truly been in a relationship before. How _humiliating_ at his age! It, quite simply, never worked out, he’s always told himself; in his youth, he lacked confidence; in most of his twenties, he couldn’t trust anyone; in the last few years, he’d been busy trying to repair his life and stay true to his new path, and the idea of opening himself up to the potential stress and instability of a relationship seemed more of a risk than the benefits were a reward.

“When I was a little boy, in grade school, I remember once that the teacher asked us if—”

“Oswald, this isn’t going to be relevant, is it?” Fish interjects.

He shuts himself up. She called his bluff that fast? A smile quirks at the corners of his mouth. Honestly, as if he expected less.

“No, not since Victor,” he confesses. Fish’s eyebrows shoot up her face. “Different Victor!” Oswald explains, waving his hand. “You don’t…you _wouldn’t_ know him.” At least, he hoped she didn’t. Victor Fries had left Gotham about a decade ago, exiling himself in the name of his experiments. Last Oswald heard of him, he was married now, and Oswald was happy for him—truly. He and Oswald were just coming out of their teens when they’d been… _whatever_ they’d been. They weren’t a couple, but there was something…close, there, something that went beyond their shared interest in getting involved in the darker side of life—Oswald worming his way into the mob, and Victor into the world of secretive, experimental science.

Maybe it was in the long nights spent listening to music in Oswald’s car, fighting over whether punk or metal was better, that made them feel so connected. Maybe it was the time Victor had held Oswald while he sobbed, devastated that his mother had vanished again, wrapped up in her own crimes, the soft, lingering kiss on the cheek Victor had given him, trying to soothe him when words didn’t work.

Maybe it was just that Oswald was young, and the reason he’d never fallen for anyone was because he wasn’t so easily enraptured anymore, having out-matured such sentimental nonsense.

“No, he and I weren’t a couple,” Oswald smiles wistfully, blinking back the long-repressed emotions now stirred up. It wasn’t that he still felt anything for him, it was simply bittersweet to recall such an old experience. Oswald long-ago assumed that would be the closest thing he’d ever have to a romantic relationship, and at the end of the day, that was his own doing, to reject anything close that had come up since. None of them _felt_ right, not even what he’d had in his teens. “And the _other_ Victor and I _definitely_ were never a couple, _that_ was a mistake, truly,” he shook his head, rubbing the toe of his shoe into the floor at an imaginary scuff on the floor that he couldn’t tear his eyes from. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters, curling his lips in both humor and shame.

“Wh…what?” Fish asks. Eyes whipping up from the floor, Oswald is taken aback by the stutter and complete lack of trademark poise and gracefulness to her speech.

“Me and Zsasz?” he responds, tone low and brow furrowed in mutual confusion, until he realizes _he is talking about him and Zsasz_. He curses, panic taking him over. He’s never told another human being and he…he just absent-mindedly blurted it out!

Fish’s hands ball into fists, sharp nails cutting small crescent moon wounds as she glares at Oswald. “Y-you and _Zsasz_ ,” she seethes between heavy huffs of breath. A new wave of anger rushes through her at the confirmation so clearly displayed on Oswald’s face. There is no doubting the connotation behind his utterance. _I’m going to be sick._

“Fish, I—”

“You slept with _Victor Zsasz,_ ” Fish growls, interrupting Oswald. She doesn’t need to hear his explanations or dismissals. Whatever Oswald was going to say couldn’t be more telling than the way he shifts in his seat, looking downright guilty. Fish knew they became close in recent years, their friendship was witnessed by all who work in the department, but never in her wildest dreams, or nightmares, could she have foreseen this occurring. Fish believed Oswald to have more sense than that, than _him_ …and Victor was no better. _So much for promises._ With a shudder passing through her, she screws her eyes firmly shut and attempts, with increasing desperation, to rid her mind of the mental images it creates. _What was he thinking?_

All prior thoughts of ethics surrounding the _Edward_ situation were forced to the side in the wake of this new development. As Captain, Fish wants clear and concise answers, regarding any and all matters; however, as Oswald’s self-appointed mother, she sets her sights on throttling the bald detective for even _thinking_ of laying a hand on him. Rising to her feet, Fish storms towards her office door, determined to put an end to any future copulations. Her heels strike the floor, cracking like whips, only to be silenced when a hand catches her wrist.

“Fish, what are you—”

“Sit down, Oswald. I will deal with you in a second.” Punctuating her order with a hard stare, Fish rips herself out of his hold and steps out onto the platform. It takes all of two seconds for Fish to find her target. Victor Zsasz is sitting on Krill’s desk, talking animatedly about some nonsensical topic that has crossed his mind. _There you are, you weasel._

Her eyes narrow as she slices her way through the throng of people, head held high. Officers and civilians part way, opening a path for her to trail. Without uttering a word to anyone, Fish nabs Victor by the collar of his shirt and drags him down the corridor, gritting her teeth together when the man in her grasp bubbles with laughter.

“Keep your dick away from my son. This is your only warning, Zsasz. I won’t tell you again,” Fish commands as she tosses him inside an empty interrogation room.

“Oh, he finally told you.” Victor is all teeth and gums, smiling like he’s just been called in to assist at a shootout rather than admonished over his sexual escapades. “Didn’t think that’d ever come to light.”

Fish nurses the thought of drawing her gun and threatening to shoot him should he try this again. Her ex-partner and her…son, for lack of a better term, coupled together. _Is nothing sacred?_ Sometimes worlds shouldn’t collide. Instead of opting for violence, Fish pinches the bridge of her nose and stalks back and forth across the length of the room, muttering to herself. “I can’t believe this is real. That you’d—”

“Come now, Fish, am I really the worst option out there?”

Fish drops her hand and glares at him, fury still boiling her blood. “After what happened with…I don’t need to detail those events to you, you already know the results of your actions.”

“Point taken, but—”

“I’m not going to like where this is going, am I?”

“Probably not,” Victor answers in turn, with a shrug of his shoulders. “You’re so uppity sometimes, you gotta remember, Captain, Oswald is a grown man, one capable of making his own decisions and for a night, that was me. What happened with… _her_ won’t ever occur again, I promised you that, but don’t correlate my past discretions with the over-and-done thing between Oswald and I. They are completely different.”

It isn’t often Victor speaks truths and it’s rare Fish takes the time to listen. So sure that her own views on the matter are the correct ones, she dismissed very possibility that _Victor_ is what Oswald wanted. The man plays himself off as a child all too often, with his endless jokes and quips, that it is difficult to perceive him as anything but. In Fish’s eyes, Oswald deserves better. Somehow the quick-tempered file clerk continues to find himself drawn towards the very people who have or have had connections to the underworld: first Victor, now Edward. It doesn’t bode well for him, but perhaps that is the connection he is seeking, someone he can relate to.

Halting her steps, Fish peers at Victor out the corner of her eye. So Oswald slept with him, it’s not the— _no_. No. “What’s in the past, stays in the past, Zsasz. I won’t have this becoming another Liza situation.”

 _Liza_. Fish hasn’t thought about her in years. She is, and likely forever will be, a sore subject. Months were spent reforming that girl, protecting her, drawing her away from the clutches of her crime boss, only to overlook her deception in the wake of brewing _feelings_. Liza was sweet, big eyes, small smiles, _attentive_. Although Fish wasn’t one to let herself get distracted by a pretty face, not when she had a job to do, Liza never made that easy.

There were days where Liza would turn up with bruises and tears welling in her eyes. Fish would hold her, console her, but never demanded information. Liza was toying with the strings of a new destiny, wading in shallow waters and those decisions were rarely without problems. Perhaps, if Fish pushed, supported her in a different way, Liza wouldn’t have resorted to deceiving them in order to save her own neck. Maybe then, Victor wouldn’t have supplied her with department secrets over pillow talk.

Fish could still recall the way he reluctantly trailed up to her one morning, head bowed, bottom lip pinched between his teeth before he confessed to what he did. That was the end to their close partnership. Fish threw herself into her work, severed herself from Victor’s side and eventually wormed her way into her current position as captain.

Bar Oswald, Liza was the first and only other attempt Fish made to reform someone. She swore to herself she wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. With experience under her belt, she adopted different tactics, a mixture of supportive and authoritative attention in order to guide Oswald on his journey. Liza was a lesson, one never forgotten.

“It’s _completely_ different, Fish,” Victor says almost pleadingly. “Oswald…he’s not Liza. You trust him, you gave him a position here with open access to any and all files. There is nothing I can tell him that he doesn’t already know.”

Running her tongue over her teeth, Fish slaps her hands down on her thighs and blinks. “No.”

“No what?”

“We are not having this conversation today.”

Instead of engaging in mindless arguments, Fish exits the room and slams the door close behind her, swiftly locking it with a turn of her keys. Guilt settles within her as she strolls through the corridor, ears catching the sound of Victor calling out in apology. _Some part of you knows you deserve this, Zsasz._ He was never punished for his transgression—perhaps the years of her sniping at him was enough, but today was not a day to let sleeping dogs lie. Not when memories were draw forth without her approval.

“Day!” Fish shouts, nabbing Julian’s attention, “Zsasz is locked in interrogation room two. Under no circumstances are you to release him until I leave. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Captain.”

With a nod, Fish clicks her way back into her office. Throwing Oswald a passing glance, she shakes her head and begins scrounging around for her belongings. There is no conceivable way she is spending another _second_ in the department today, her officers can fend for themselves tonight. 

“Before you ask,” Fish cuts in abruptly as Oswald opens his mouth, “Zsasz is without harm.” Gathering the files on her desk, Fish’s hand lingers atop, wondering if Oswald helped himself to them, (it wouldn’t be the first time), and if he had been able to piece together the connection Red attempted to convey. _It doesn’t matter,_ she tells herself. Red’s problems were tomorrow’s concerns—that includes Oswald’s thoughts on the matter.

Stuffing the last of her daily items in her bag, Fish hooks it over an arm and turns to face Oswald. “Now for your _Edward_ problem…do whatever you desire.” Oswald balks, mouth falling open in shock, but Fish isn’t finished. “If you like him and want to fuck him, go for it…hell, even marry the kid, for all I care. _Anyone_ is better than Zsasz.”

Taking a breath, followed in quick succession by another, Fish closes the gap between her and Oswald, calming herself just enough so she can impart one last smidge of advice. She reaches down and taps a finger to his chest. “The only ethics you need to be concerned about are the ones which make up your own code. I’m not going to stand here and talk you out of something you appear to have your… _sights_ set on. If Edward makes you happy, why deny yourself what you both desire?”

Leaving Oswald with that thought, Fish exits her office without so much as a goodbye. Today has been dreadful, she is weary, she is agitated and she intends to forget all about it as soon as she gets her hand on one of the several bottles waiting for her at home.

Oswald can do nothing but blink, stunned by Fish’s display. Who knew she would react that vehemently? He assumed that if anyone found out about him and Zsasz’s…( _oh, why struggle for a term, it doesn’t deserve one,_ Oswald complains to himself), that it would, at worst, become a source of mockery or cause discomfort for him and his friend. Protectiveness from Fish made no sense. The depth of her hatred for Zsasz clearly is boundless, and Oswald has no idea, nor does he assume he ever will understand _why_.

Well, at least she didn’t make him discuss it with her. Let her assume whatever she wanted about it—that he slept with Zsasz was too nice a term for what had happened. _Hooked up_ is what he expected it would be referred to as by anyone else; it had been years ago, Oswald had been…less than sober, and very much (to his shame) _eager_ to prove Zsasz wrong when he taunted that Oswald didn’t know how to have fun. A heated make-out session (that Oswald had no idea how he managed his way through, having never done anything like it before) and some excessive and unnecessary (and _regrettable_ ) lap-straddling and _grinding_ later and Oswald would never again be able to claim he was _completely_ inexperienced.

Burying his face in his hands to rub at his face, Oswald groans in misery, thanks to remembering all of this. He’d been sure he’d destroyed his only friendship with the impromptu act they’d participated in; he’d sought Zsasz out the next day at work, eventually explaining, despite dissolving into choked-back tears, that he didn’t _feel_ anything for Zsasz deeper than friendship and that he was humiliated that he’d gone and given the impression he _did_. How hurt he assumed Zsasz would be—yet the reality was quite the opposite. Zsasz said he enjoyed the “fun” for what it was, and that it didn’t have to be ascribed any particular meaning. He liked Oswald and Oswald liked him, in some form—that was all that mattered.

Today has forced Oswald, in one short span, to revisit the very short chapter on his love life. It would be _much_ more preferable if he’d crawled into a hole or even a sewer, than have had to have considered all of this, especially at _once_.

He didn’t even know how to explain the _thing_ he felt for Edward. It’s been a little over a week since they last spoke, the time on Oswald’s end torn between recovering from the ambush and from trying to avoid Edward because of how drastically his feelings towards the man had changed.

No. Not _changed_ , because he can trace the beginnings of it all, if he focuses on it. The repressed physical attraction, the interest in Edward, despite the frustration of dealing with him, the magnetic draw of—

Oswald’s phone rings and he withdraws it from his pocket. Still sitting in Fish’s office where she’d left him, he takes the call. Stretching his bad leg out, he grits his teeth before speaking. Did he _summon_ him merely by thinking about him?

“Hello, Ed,” Oswald answers, choking more than speaking. He cringes at himself, driving the heel of his palm into his knee, to shift focus. _What the hell do I say? Hi, abandoned mentee of mine, apologies for never resolving the situation where I let my rage against you consume me and drive you back into what I now suspect is a mental health problem of yours—I’ve been alternating between fantasizing about cradling you in my arms again in that alleyway, or just pulling you onto me and having my way with you because I’m that easily swayed, apparently. How’s the business of seeking-absolution for your wordplay-based serial killer sins proceeding without my moderation? Any progress or are you only calling to confirm my coffee order and current location?_

“Nice of you to call. I’ve missed you,” he says, instead, voice switching from almost sardonically stoic to soft and sensitive in a whip’s crack.

“I—I missed you, too.” Ed pinches his bottom lip and smiles into his hand. His heart, which began beating erratically when he dialed Oswald’s number, shifts a notch faster after hearing his voice and admission. He was missed…and if he was missed, he was _thought_ about. Ed was on Oswald’s mind. Perhaps the small break from each other was a blessing, although an excruciating one on Ed’s behalf, but goodbyes pave the way for another hello.

Straightening with confidence, Ed fiddles with the top button of his shirt. “ _Actually,_ that’s the reason I’m calling.”

“Oh? A-are you ok, is everything alright?” Oswald feels the same concern he felt after the lines-debacle return. Rubbing his eyebrows with his middle finger and thumb, the guilt that he should’ve called Ed sooner drags him low. _I am so abysmally bad at this_.

“I believe I should be the one asking you that,” Ed comments, mind turning. _Why would there be anything wrong? I’ve only been sitting around waiting for you to call, message…remember I exist._ Pressing his fingers to his lips, he silences his thoughts before they could worm their way out of his mouth. He shouldn’t be feeling this, Oswald suffered an injury, one which resulted in him being whisked to the hospital. That tends to come with recovery time, although a week appeared a prolonged stretch of time. Were there complications? “How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Oswald answers, without thought. “It’s healed, from what the doctors said. I discharged myself after 24 hours. Getting back to work was my main priority.”

“Oswald…does—does that mean you don’t want to see me any more?” Ed croaks, overly aware of Kristen’s eyes on his back. There is little doubt in his mind that she is listening to the conversation taking place and from both their perspectives, this doesn’t look good. _Oswald forgot about me._ Ed feels foolish for spending the past eight days overly chipper, believing that for _once_ he was doing the right thing. Resisting the urge to curl in on himself, Ed strives for clarity and understanding. “I _know_ you have your rules in place, I just expected…I don’t know.”

“ _What_?” Why is Ed always jumping to conclusions like this? Their ability to communicate with each other is practically nonexistent at times such as this, and it makes Oswald despair. “No, I wanted to get back to work is what it means! You know how important it is to me that I be available to help Mooney. You always assume—” he sighs, shoving his face into his palm, “—the most ridiculous…we haven’t even gotten to talk about what happened last week.” _And already we’re back to being in strife with each other._ “That conversation can still happen, if you want,” Oswald offers quickly, hoping to steer them back onto the path of reconciliation they were dragged off of, thanks to Jim, the _thug_.

“I—yes, I want that. I want to see you.” Wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder Ed begins to loop his tie, wrapping the deep purple fabric around itself before pulling it though. “It’s been eight days…almost _nine_ ,” he comments, smiling brightly, uneasiness shifting away. All hope is not lost. Oswald may even accept his offer.

“Only ‘eight days?’ Usually you’re more precise than that. To the _minute_. I lost a day or two myself so I haven’t kept track.” Oswald closes his eyes. “I assumed, after long enough, you would’ve shown up by now.”

“Oswald, after…” _Does he want me to list the minutes? I can._ Ed tracked close to every single one. From a young age, he has been aware of the passage of time and with Oswald’s absence from his life it has only become more apparent, each minute glaringly obvious. _No, this isn’t what he wants,_ Ed realizes. Oswald is teasing him, not striving for a literal response to his jests.

“With everything—I didn’t,” Ed cuts off his botched explanation and takes a deep breath, recollecting his thoughts. He scratches at the back of his neck, tugging on the smaller strands of hair and sighs. “I’ve broken enough of your rules.”

Oswald pauses for a long time, biting his lips. “I…I appreciate that, Ed. But I don’t mind seeing you. It would be nice to…” _To what? Don’t do this to him, don’t go down this path, Oswald…_. “I’m glad you called first. Thank you for that.” He rubs at the bridge of his nose, chest burning with frustration over every word he leaves unspoken.

“So you want to see me? That’s good, no it’s _great._ You see I, _ah…_ well…” Ed stammers as he turns on his heel and makes his way over to Kristen’s bag. Rifling through it, he withdraws her small mirror, gazes at his reflection quickly before snapping it closed.

 _How’s my hair?_ He mouths to his thoughtfully silent friend, flapping his hand through the air, waiting for approval. She nods, blinks twice and smiles, eyes shining with emotion Ed cannot decipher. Grinning in thanks, Ed creeps his way back over to the corner of the room and pinches the knot of his tie, readjusting it even though there is little need. “I was originally calling to ask if you, perchance—and if you don’t wish to, that’s your decision, but would you like to come out tonight…with _me_?”

“Go out tonight, with you?” Oswald’s heart skips forward a few beats; the sensation leaves him lurching, dizzy. He had no idea that was something that could physically happen and how _alarming_ it would feel. How was the cliche so much lesser in meaning in comparison to its reality? “Ah, yes, that is, um, you don’t mean—” he swallows, trying to regain some control. “You mean _go out?_ Go out _where?_ ”

“You…okay, I—” Ed claps a hand to his chest, tapping twice, laughing in joyous relief and excitement as he bounces on the balls of his feet, “—The Sirens at… _um_ , nine o’clock,” he conveys after a glance at his watch. It is only a few hours away. _I’m going to see Oswald in a few hours._ Ed bites his bottom lip and stifles a squee. What a fabulous turn of events.

“Does that work well for you?” Ed asks, rocking from side to side.

“The Sirens? Where is that—never mind, I’ll find it myself. Wait, isn’t that a nightclub?” Oswald blinks slowly; it feels like his eyes might pop out of his skull. Again he is floored that _any_ of these emotions are affecting him. He would have gone a lifetime without experiencing this, without Ed and his unrelenting devotion. The thought sends him into a bit of a whirl, same as when he realized the absurd chances that fate would have Ed available to save his life in that alley.

“Is that a problem?” Ed’s nerves are back. Oswald has strapped him on a rollercoaster and harnesses the controls, shifting him up and down with the power of his words alone. It’s almost dizzying, the way Ed’s moods and general demeanor fluctuate, all hinged on Oswald’s…on _Oswald_. “I would suggest somewhere else…only that, well, Red has roped me into attending alongside her.”

The Sirens can be gaudy, its owner pretentious, but within it holds the individual Kristen is seeking. Ed isn’t sure who it is, nor does he care to find out. He would rather avoid getting mixed up in whatever Kristen is planning. That’s not his life anymore, not since meeting Oswald. _What if Oswald doesn’t approve of the destination?_ Ed chews on his lip, stripping back a small slither of skin. _Then I will have to take him somewhere more to his liking in the future,_ he thinks, solving his internal dilemma.

“Red?” The _partner_? “Red’s coming?” Oswald asks, incredulous. “You’re going with—what is she doing? What are _you_ doing?” he demands to know. “I thought…” Nothing against the woman, but Oswald by default assumed she was no longer a part of Edward’s life. He stopped speaking of her. This didn’t bode well. If Ed is plotting on dragging Oswald into some kind of _worthless_ scheme, after everything Oswald has been through the last five weeks, has been through the last five _years_ , he will—Oswald _gulps_ ; he thought Ed was asking him on a _date_ , and he clearly couldn’t have been more mistaken. Shame plummets Oswald in a thick wave.“I thought you wanted to meet me for a drink.” So much for concerns over _ethics_ , the nature of Ed’s interest in Oswald continues to remain as impossible to comprehend as it always has been.

“I _did_ …I do.” Ed wants to see him more than anything, and that was difficult to convey. Any time he had expressed any feelings for Oswald he was shunted, notion tossed aside until the day Oswald was assaulted. It left Ed on uneven grounds, forced to tread somewhat carefully. Emotions, these _specific_ emotions have never been so intense, full bodied. Anything he felt for people prior to Oswald didn’t compare. Those experiences were stepping stones leading him down a path of discovery and wonder…all the way to Oswald.

“I didn’t even want to go until Red suggested for you to accompany me. I want to see you, Oswald, that—that wasn’t a lie.” It never would be.

“O-oh. Well then. I suppose it’s time I finally meet her,” Oswald comments, hoping he sounds neutral. “I still don’t…quite understand what’s going on, but I would enjoy seeing you again.” The words slip out; he’s betrayed himself without thinking. He can’t go on like this! It’s humiliating. “Should I bring company as well?” Oswald asks, quickly formulating a plan.

Ed’s stomach jolts at the sound of Oswald’s conveyance and his hand tightens around his phone. “ _Who_?” he sneers, lip curling. Who is it that Oswald wants to bring? Who is it that will take Oswald’s attention away from him? Whoever it is better be resigned to their fate as an ignored and forgotten party.

“Sorry,” Ed apologizes half-heartedly. He isn’t sorry, he’s agitated. Teeth gritted, muscles tense, Ed takes a breath and uncurls his fist, unaware of the moment it formed. How is it that Oswald can send him spiraling before he can even make sense of a situation and why is it often so intense? Drawing forth a semblance of propriety, as not to make an _utter_ fool of himself, Ed licks his lips, bites the tip of his tongue and continues with his nonchalant apology. 

“I— _ah_ , if you wish to bring someone that’s _fine_ , I guess. I know Red is going to be busy half the night, but if you would like to have someone _else_ by your side while we talk—I…it’s your prerogative.”

“Well, there’s no need to grouse about it, I don’t think we’re going to get much talking done in a _nightclub_ with your _partner_ taking up half the night,” Oswald snarks back, words biting and tone fierce. Ed is a _fool_ to still try to get the upper hand at this rate; Oswald has a feeling he will never stop. There’s enough push-pull effect to their relationship—this dimension, the battle to remind Ed of his place is, in its own twisted way, Oswald’s favorite. The way Ed vexes him whites his mind out with the instant reaction to counter him and _win_. The fact that this defiant behavior from Ed used to make Oswald _fearful_ feels so distant: it’s shocking to recall it was not so long ago.

Still, there’s levels to this that Oswald cannot, _will not_ explore, will not allow himself to cross. Last week was proof of that. And though Fish had given something close to her _blessing_ , the _alternate_ to how their relationship could proceed is off the table now, thanks to this phone call (and humiliating afternoon), and needs to remain that way. “This way I’ll have someone to spend time with when _you’re_ busy, as well,” Oswald explains, when Ed doesn’t respond immediately. “It’s only _fair_.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that you _couldn’t_ bring a friend. I only… _ah_ ,” Ed deflates, chin to chest, trepidation replacing his building ego. Being admonished by Oswald isn’t exactly how he envisioned their first conversation after so long apart. Of all the countless scenarios he had imagined, and there had been several dozen, this hadn’t been on the table. _I shouldn’t be so astounded. Oswald is rather astute._ He managed to gauge Ed’s mental and emotional shifts in a split second and swiftly acted accordingly, outwitting any future rebuttal. Shifting on his feet, staring down at his toes, Ed doesn’t risk glancing in Kristen’s direction—she’ll either be smirking or scowling and he can’t decide which is worse.

“I’m sorry for, well…I’m sorry. Of course you’re entitled to bring whoever you like. I look forward to meeting them.”

 _You’re a liar, Edward Nygma_ , he tells himself, _and not a good one either._ Despite this, Ed smiles, lips smashed together tightly, eyes sad. Oswald outfoxes him, it’s something he _should_ despise, yet instead he almost covets it, testing Oswald’s limits…and his own reach and pull. The Riddler may be abandoned but certain ideals are everpresent. Ed is wary whenever he shifts into these moods: there are limitations, lines he cannot cross for fear or sending or scaring Oswald away. It happened once before and there is the very real possibility it could again, so Ed keeps himself in check, for Oswald. He would do anything for him.

“Good. I look forward to meeting your friend; it’s about time. She’s played a key role in my life, after all.” Oswald narrows his gaze as his voice drops into a measured, low tone. “Hopefully we can…talk at some point, perhaps after…at some later time.” He drags his nails along the leather seam of the arm rest.

“Y-you and I, I mean,” Oswald quickly clarifies—he’s fully aware by now that Ed is one of those people that doesn’t always understand sentence context, and Oswald has been trying to compensate for that since he figured it out a few weeks ago. He fails more than he succeeds, but hopefully re-explaining his message makes it clear this time. “Until then, it will be nice to see you again without…without _dramatic_ interruptions.”

Resting the back of his head against the wall, Ed licks his lips and stares at the ceiling. His obtrusive behaviour did little to dissuade Oswald from attending tonight. Whether or not he has a friend in tow, it is bound to be a joyous time. To do something other than meet at the GCPD or on a random street, to do something normal with Oswald makes Ed feel both titillated and bashful. It’s uncharted grounds, but any new step taken alongside Oswald is effervescent, something to be celebrated.

“I would love nothing more” Ed says sincerely, digits coming to trace the pink scar on his throat, sending his heart racing. It is the only visceral connection he has to Oswald, a connection which will forever exist. Ed smiles, open-mouthed, breathing slowly as he recalls their last encounter and the way Oswald called out for him and accepted his touch. What new discoveries lie ahead of them tonight?

“I look forward to seeing you again, Oswald,” he whispers, somehow managing a steady stream of words.

“As do I. I’ll see you at nine. You—I—I wanted to—to say…” His heart flip-flops again, betrayed _again_ by his emotions, since they are still desperately reaching out for Ed, despite all that exists to the contrary, all that indicates Oswald needs to _stop_. “To say goodbye for now, Edward.”

“I… _goodbye_?” Ed can’t help but feel like he missed something vital, but without being able to lay eyes on Oswald, he is at a loss. Then again, even with the assistance of other senses, he often manages to misunderstand things.

Oswald says “goodbye” once more, and hears Ed repeat it as he hangs up the call, clicking the button instead of snapping his phone shut. Even doing something akin to violent or angry _anywhere_ near something to do with Ed makes him feel sick. He’s going to be careful from now on, only careful and nothing else, he promises to himself silently, as he gently brings the screen down into the keyboard, and pockets his phone.

Tipping his head back as he reclines, Oswald considers the faded spirals in the carpet for a moment. Since Zsasz hasn’t come running in here yet, Oswald knows exactly where Fish has left him, and he’s fine where he is; still, Oswald needs to go retrieve him.

They have to get ready to go out in a few hours, after all.

The first few steps Oswald makes out of her office, he does so with his head low, avoiding the eyes of his coworkers, assuming they must all be glaring at him, waiting for him to pass before they resume whispering. It’s best to assume the worst has come to pass. Fish’s office is completely out in the open; he’d learned long ago it wasn’t hard to see or hear what was going on if someone gave it effort to eavesdrop. Being so on display was so uncomfortable to him and so against how he conducted himself in the years since he hide away in his current lifestyle. His own office was tucked away, desk recessed from the doorway and the whole room mostly shrouded in darkness—it was a place he felt comfortable in, that reflected where he belonged, still, even after all this time.

Still, something about making himself small and secretive felt _wrong_ on such a deep level: something intrinsically ingrained in himself seethed at his self-imposed conditions, how it allowed him to give into his darker thoughts about himself—as something mockable, unavoidably a freak, that everything he does will eventually become a source of derision. Instead of meeting judging eyes with a smile of his own confidence, throwing all the contempt he’s faced back in their faces, here he is, watching his own footsteps.

It’s this realization of this deficit in his self-confidence that makes Oswald lift his head and walk with defiance through the gallery, not caring what they may have heard. _So what if I’ve fucked around? Didn’t think anyone would want me, huh? Your mistake._

“What’s shaking, boss?” Alvarez asks as Oswald strides past the pens.

Oswald stops and turns to smile at the thief, the expression both in sympathy and in humor. He’s their most frequent guest; a much-more innocent version of who Oswald had once been, when he lived in that very cell, on display for all in ratty clothes and drowning in his own vitriol, directed at everyone peering at him when he was at the beginning of his quest for absolution, under Fish’s counsel. Unlike Oswald though, Alvarez practically checks himself in, committing increasingly bland misdemeanors _solely_ to end up back in the GCPD’s lockup. He must feel safer here. Only time will tell if he’ll fight for the right to be here out of his own freedom, like Oswald eventually did.

Like Ed did.

“I have plans this evening,” Oswald tells him, jaw lifted, “with a friend.”

Officer Day scuttles up to them and before he can open his mouth, Oswald silences with a hand. “Interrogation room?” he asks, and Day nods. “I’ll take care of it,” Oswald says, rolling his eyes and shooing Day away with a hand.

This is the first moment in the longest time Oswald can remember that he doesn’t feel sorry for himself.

He feels like he’s shining.

Using his own set of keys, Oswald unlocks the interrogation room and finds Zsasz inside, calm as water in a lake—exactly what Oswald expected. He’s taken his gun apart and is absentmindedly reassembling it, moving at what is a leisurely pace for someone as quick with the weapon as he is, but there’s only so slow he can move when each step is clearly embedded in his muscle memory.

“Hi, Oswald,” Zsasz says, waving, without looking up. 

“I didn’t tell her on purpose,” Oswald immediately defends himself.

Zsasz looks up at him, brow raised. “Ozzie, it’s your business, I don’t mind what you want to do with it. Tell whoever you want, I know you were embarrassed about it for such a long time.”

Oswald grips his cane tightly, lips pinched. “Not because of you. You know that, right?”

Zsasz shrugs and slides the last few pieces of his gun into place. He tests it out, the dull sound of the metal striking nothing clicking.

“Zsasz. _Zsasz_. Look at me,” Oswald demands, stepping forward, into his space. Finally his friend drags his eyes up, the emotion in them impassive and unreadable to Oswald. “It’s not you I’m ashamed of. I never was, I never will be. You remember how I begged you to please just forget about it, if we could go back to the way things were?”

“Of course I did,” Zsasz says, softer than Oswald can recall him ever sounding. “It was no big deal, it was never a big deal—”

“It was to _me_ ,” Oswald interrupts. “That’s what I’m trying to explain. I didn’t want to ever lose you. You need to know it was never _you_ that was the problem.” Oswald pauses for a moment; even Zsasz has stilled. They’ve never discussed this since the day after it happened, but Oswald wants it laid to rest now. “How could I be ashamed of you? You’re the best friend that I’ve ever had.”

His self-assurance is short-lived, as he feels it drain out of him rapidly, watching the blank look on Zsasz’s face. They’re not in love with each other, but they do love each other—that’s always been enough, and Oswald bites back every word he could ramble right now, trying to retrieve the balance they’d had before this all came back in the light.

The side of Zsasz’s mouth quirks, and in a snap, he breaks out into a full smile. “That’s a really nice thing you said. Didn’t know you had it in you. Thanks. You’re my best friend, too.”

Oswald reaches out and pats Zsasz on the shoulder, rubbing the side of his arm affectionately. “I need you around as a constant reminder to never let myself…” Well, he can’t really say that part out loud. “Usually I would try to be more eloquent than this, but it’s best I be blunt in this situation—I’m an asshole, and your presence reminds me to try to be _less_ of one.”

“That’s what makes you fun, though,” Zsasz stands up and ruffles Oswald’s hair, making him squawk in protest. “S’why I like you!”

“I need your help with something,” Oswald says, preening his hair back in place and motioning for Zsasz to clean up his space so they can leave. “Do you still have those boxes I gave you when I moved into my mother’s apartment? I need some of the items I have stored in there. Also, come out for drinks with me later tonight. You don’t have plans, I know you don’t.”

Shaking his head, Zsasz waves his hands. “That was…about six different questions at once. Yes, to all of them? Where are we going?”

“I don’t know, it didn’t exist back when I was in the scene, but I’m sure we can look up the address. Well, come on,” Oswald gestures grandly, jokingly making a show of letting Zsasz leave the room first.

If anyone wants to talk, Oswald wants them to have to look at him _last_ —so they can see the glare in his eyes. He closes the door shut, grinning at the thought. It feels good to be back to his old self; surely it’s safe to toy with the line of who he is and who he was like this. He’s in control—he has this down to an _art_.

He is the _master_ of this in someone’s eyes, after all.

~~~

“ _Kristen_ ,” Ed whines over the top of the thumping music as he checks his watch for the third time in thirty-three seconds. His eyes take a few seconds to draw focus but as they do, he clocks the time. “Oswald is _four_ minutes late. What if he decided that I’m—that _this_ , isn’t what he wanted. Do you think he forgot? _Could_ he forget? Am I forgettable? I—”

Frowning when someone barges into him, Ed steadies his hand, keeping his drink upright and peers out into the throng of people shuffling around the nightclub. It _could_ be classed as dancing, he surmises, but Ed doesn’t believe any of them are dignified enough to form the distinction between the almost sexual nature of their movements and the fluidity that is _supposed_ to be dance. They are all slaves to whatever desire takes hold. Sneering at them, Ed trails his bottom lip across rim of his glass, inhaling the scent of the alcohol before swallowing it down.

An artificial warmth fills him, after five drinks Ed is surprised he didn’t notice it earlier. Placing his glass to the side, he tugs at his collar attempting to get some air to his flushed skin. Kristen didn’t appear to have this problem, then again, she wasn’t wearing a suit.

“Kristen, _Kristen_.” Ed taps her on her shoulder, drawing her attention away from whoever it is she’s staring at—they don’t matter, they aren’t Oswald—only to drop his hand when she narrows her eyes at him. “Sorry, Red,” he apologizes: she isn’t Kristen right now. She’s here to work, not solely for fun. Ed is here for the promise of Oswald but he has yet to arrive.

“Should I call him? O-Oswald, that is,” Ed clarifies, hands flapping about as he pats his body down in search for his phone. “I mean on one hand, I don’t want to be a bother, I want to respect him and his decisions but on the other…it’s _Oswald,_ a-and I was, I _am_ , eager to see him.”

Kristen doesn’t answer him, not verbally anyhow. She shrugs her shoulders and tilts her head before returning to scanning the room. _Thanks for your help, Red._ Exhaling a sigh of relief when he locates his phone, having briefly feared someone pickpocketed him, Ed’s thumb hovers over the Oswald’s number, twitching slightly.

“You don’t think it’s the traffic that has him held up, do you, Red? The news reports said the roads were relatively clear tonight. I—”

“Ed—”

“I’m going to call him,” Ed interjects, mind made up. It may make him look like a fool but he needs answers. As of right now he is stuck in limbo, unable to settle with the influx of questions forming odd scenarios.

“There’s no need to call me.”

_I know that voice._

“Oswald!” Ed exclaims, stumbling on his feet, instantly wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders. “You—you’re here. You didn’t—” His words die in his throat when Ed realises something is different, that there’s something he missed. Holding Oswald close for another second brings Ed an ounce of clarity. It breaks through the slight haze his mind has become with the intake of alcohol. _Oswald smells different._ Pulling back, mouth quirked into a smile, Ed runs his eyes over Oswald’s attire, flicking rapidly from point to point.

“You look _swanky,_ ” he blurts, thumbing the lapels of Oswald’s tux. He hasn’t worn this before…although Oswald is a fabulous dresser, this is to a far grander standard. “No, _more_ than swanky, you—are you wearing make-up?” Nudging his glasses up his nose, Ed ducks his head and ghosts his fingers across Oswald’s cheek. The dark nature of his eyes intrigues him. Kristen has worn eyeliner and mascara in Ed’s presence countless times, but there is something different about the way it looks on Oswald. It’s entrancing, captivating.

“I like it, all of it—you. You look, I can’t…” Ducking his head, flustered and smiling, Ed puts a hand to his chest and takes a breath. “Hi, Oswald.”

Oswald’s heart trip-hammers in his chest as Ed’s fingertips brush his face again, reaching out once more to caress Oswald’s cheekbone. He’s probably looking for Oswald’s freckles—Ed would notice something like that, of course he would. Opting for a full face of makeup, Oswald’s covered over them in foundation. His uneven skin tone betrayed how tired he was, and once he’d retrieved all his old makeup from Zsasz’s place, he decided to go for the full effect. Simple pleasures, such as wearing makeup, were parts of Oswald’s old life he couldn’t justify why he’d given up in the first place.

“Hi,” he replies to Ed’s unabashed smile and unfocused, flickering gaze. “Hi,” he repeats himself when Ed blinks slowly and his grin grows, face wrinkling in patterns no one would suspect if they only looked at Edward’s smooth skin when he wears a neutral expression. It’s lovely, how one emotion can transform a face so much, how it can bring out a side to someone rarely seen, or properly appreciated—

Zsasz smashes his shoulder into Oswald’s back pointedly, and Oswald almost topples over with the force of it. He turns back to glare at his best friend, the _jerk_. When he asked Zsasz to be his watchmen, he didn’t mean Zsasz had the right to mock him. Oswald wasn’t sure what kind of trouble the unholy duo of Chess Freak and the equally murderous Strawberry Shortcake would get up to, and that’s why he brought Zsasz.

Unfortunately, Zsasz clearly figured out the other reason. Ed stared, slack-jawed, at the interruption of his reunion. Oswald reached a hand out to pat Ed on the arm, gripping and squeezing his forearm, trying to be reassuring but finding the effort required in letting Ed go to be a challenge.

Oswald laughed nervously and the sound startled someone behind Ed. With a whip of her hair and a tip-tap of her heels, she shepherds Ed away, or tries—Ed has a much larger frame than hers thanks to his height, and her shoving doesn’t budge him more than an inch.

Even without the glasses, Oswald recognizes her green eyes instantly. No amount of makeup or styling on either of them could mask that connection they shared.

“It’s nice to finally meet you properly, Miss,” Oswald says, extending a hand to her.

After a pause, she shakes his hand, eyes flicking across his face. “Likewise,” is all she replies, and Oswald nods in response, the unspoken thank you in her eyes obvious enough to not need commenting on.

“Hello,” Zsasz crams an arm between all of them somehow, reaching for Ed’s partner, waiting for her to shake his hand, too. “Name’s Zsasz,” he says with a flash of his teeth. Ed’s glare could set Zsasz on fire, if it were possible. Oswald can’t help but chuckle at that, holding back his laughter by biting his top lip as he breaks into a smile, which earns him a confused and wounded glare from Ed.

“Just call me Red,” Ed’s partner loosely shakes Zsasz’s hand, and Oswald gets crowded in by the two of them boxing him in, pinning him against Ed.

Ed’s hands settle on Oswald’s waist, fingers shifting, pressing and pulling as the arms crossing through them fall away. For once the invasive movements aren’t a bother as they result in bring Oswald closer, bodies pressing at every seam. Ed is certain Oswald can feel the moment his breath catches as well as perceive the very _second_ his heart begins to beat erratically. _This…he…I_ ….His mind runs through seven different scripts, each overlapping and combining in an inconcise jumble of words. Ed gazes down at Oswald, through half-lidded eyes. _Kiss him,_ his mind commands and the urge to do so is overpowering. What Ed wouldn’t give to crane his neck and connect their mouths is a list near inconclusive, however the smallest slither of rationality holds firm, dissuading him from that which he wants so desperately.

“Do you like birds?” Ed squeaks in question, drawing an aghast look from the man in his arms as well as a confused smile. “Your hair, your cane, your clothes, the puffing of your chest…birds do this. Not dress up and put makeup on of course, that’d be _silly_ —which is something you’re not—but you have the crest, too, erected tall, drawing attention. You are not someone easily overlooked.”

“You’re right, Eddie, he _does_ look like a bird,” Kristen says, interrupting their moment with her teasing quip.

“I—that’s not…I didn’t—” Ed stutters, chest tightening when Oswald glares at her. _What are you doing, Kristen? Stop ruining the mood, stop making him angry._

“I mean look at him,” she continues, perching her chin on Ed’s shoulder, waving a hand in his direction, “the hair, the tux…it’s almost _Penguin_ -like, wouldn’t you agree, Oswald?”

 _I’m obviously missing something._ Despite being inebriated, Ed catches the silent conversation flowing between the two parties. Their eyes narrow, eyebrows twitch and mouths quirk. He’s unsure what they are conversing about but he is certain it cannot be good. Oswald’s joints have tensed, the muscles in his jaw ripple and he barely breathes. With a roll of his shoulder, Ed forces Kristen away, tossing his head over his shoulder he frowns at her, but she is as unfazed as usual. With a raising of her brows and a wink, she turns away.

“Don’t worry about her,” Ed says apologetically, cupping Oswald’s jaw, redirecting his attention from the meddling redhead. “I happen to like penguins, they’re cute a-and well, if that is your source of inspiration, stick with it, _own_ it…as long as you aren’t about to tell me you have a mouthful of spiny barbs. That could be quite painful.”

The crease between Oswald’s brows deepens and almost immediately Ed catches on to what he has insinuated. With widening eyes and burning cheeks, he scrambles for an explanation. “I didn’t—you, I mean… _well_ ….” It’s not like he can openly say that he’s thought about Oswald’s mouth before, relay how he’s imagined kissing him, tasting him, _amongst other things_ , countless times over the past few weeks. Those are desires that should be locked away until a time where Oswald is more receptive, not blurted in the middle of an overcrowded nightclub.

“Penguins they, ah…they have these little spikes on their _tongue_ and _palate_ which assist in guiding food down their throat,” Ed enunciates, hand twisting in the air as a directional tool. “They’re quite fascinating little things.” Oswald nods in agreement, but his eyes are partially unfocused. _Is he listening? Should I tell the proprietor to turn the music down?_ Shifting on his feet, Ed decides that _no_ , he will not do that as it involves detaching himself from Oswald, which is the last thing he wants to do.

Attention diverted, caught by the movement in the corner of his eye, Ed gazes around the club. The low thumping notes of the music wash through him as the white noise of chatter reaches his ears. Sounds that melted away in the wake of Oswald’s arrival are overwhelming with the influx of new patrons crammed into the small space. Tugging at his collar, Ed watches the sea of heads swirl around. The contempt he felt for them earlier in the evening lessens; they are still nothing more than gyrating animals, feeding off each other’s energies, but to each their own.

“I never had a pet before,” he says, smile growing as he dips his head to whisper in Oswald’s ear, bottom lip catching the outer edge. “You have one though, you brought the _puppy_.” Ed’s head swirls as he inhales another whiff of Oswald’s perfume which clouds his mind. A heavy weight settles in his frontal lobe… _how can someone smell so good?_ Pressing closer, he cups the man’s neck, fingers scratching through the short strands of his hair. Oswald’s hand is back on his arm, fingers tightening, as Ed works to ascertain the underlying notes of his scent. _Is that…._

“Ed, what—”

“Sorry, I didn’t—your friend, Victor Zsasz,” Ed explains, drawing back to run his hands over Oswald’s shoulders. “The over-excitable man, jubilant to a bothersome degree…how can one person be that happy all the time? He scampers around nipping at people’s heels, yipping, and yapping in attempts to obtain a mere _scrap_ of attention from his master.” A frown passes over Ed’s features as he chews on his bottom lip, head tilting to the side. “Are _you_ his master, Oswald, or is that Fish?”

Oswald gapes, then smiles briefly before tracing his teeth with his tongue. Ed tracks the movement, _no spiny barbs,_ and awaits his answer, but before Oswald has even the _slightest_ chance to speak—something Ed finds himself missing—the man in question bounds in beside them, insinuating his face inches away from their own. “You _do_ know I can hear you, right?”

“I’m _well_ aware,” Ed mutters, forcing a hand into Victor’s face, compressing his nose as he shoves him away. “Do you need a collar and leash to keep you in place or will you refrain from interrupting an ongoing conversation? It’s _bad_ manners.” Standing tall, Ed eyes the smirking man over the top of Oswald’s crisscrossed hair, only to find the connection disrupted when Oswald scoffs and draws back half a step.

“Please don’t go.” Snaking an arm around Oswald’s waist, Ed uses his free hand to cup his cheek, stroking his thumb back and forth. “I’ll be good, I’ll stop insulting your friend. He’s only your _friend_ , right? You never clarified that on the phone. All you said is that you want to bring someone, withholding who it was that _someone_ is or what they mean to you. If he is what makes you comfortable being here, then I am _almost_ glad…no, wait, I’m delighted—if you didn’t bring your _friend_ , I would have missed witnessing this altered look of yours.”

Oswald stares up at him, lips parted, blinking more than necessary as Ed trails the back of his finger down his chest from clavicle to navel. It was almost impossible to do with the way they are pressed together, but it hardly hinders him. Licking his lips, Ed bites the tip of his tongue and smiles.

“You made yourself all pretty. You should dress like this more often, it’s quite becoming.” Lifting a hand, Ed settles his digits beneath Oswald’s chin, tilting his head back slightly. The action is smooth; there is no fight, no resistance. He welcomes the feeling of warmth leaching from Oswald’s skin and the shifting of muscles as he swallows, their combined stare remaining intact.

“Oswald,” Ed begins quietly, stroking the underside of the man’s lip as he dips his head, hovering mere inches away, “did you know…were you aware that I—”

Ed yelps as he is tugged back rather forcefully, coming face-to-face with his friend. “Kr— _Red_ ” he corrects himself,“what is the—”

“Eddie,” she cuts in with a raised brow and a poignant stare. “I let you say your hellos, but I didn’t bring you here so you could spend all night tangled up with Oswald. How about you get us _all_ some drinks?”

Not missing the order in her tone, Ed bites his lip and nods. “The usual?” he asks, question answered with a smile. Spinning on his heel, he turns back to Oswald, finding him standing next to his guest. Ed keeps his face impassive as he strolls over to them, keeping a keen eye out for anything that would suggest that the two men are _more than friends_.

“Oswald, can I get you… _and_ your friend a drink?”

Swallowing, Oswald licks his lips and drags his eyes from Ed’s belt buckle back up to his face, slowly, finding it difficult to return his sights where they _belong_ , the resistance similar to forcing the wrong ends of two magnets side-by-side, how they roll off each other, unable to ever connect. Since there’s always been something so _magnetic_ about him and Edward, it shouldn’t come as a shock that trying to stave it off results in _nothing_ useful.

It’s easier to fix his eyes on the edge of Ed’s glasses: that way he can stare at the silver oval that adorns the black plastic on the edge instead of having to meet Ed’s eyes, blown so wide they’re almost black instead of brown, or watch his various smiles, nervous lip-licking, how distractingly pink Ed’s mouth is…

Working his jaw, Oswald flicks his eyes to Ed and gives in to staring, into _absorbing_ the sight before him. He wants to reach out and pet Ed’s arm again, pat and squeeze his elbow, wrap his fingers around Ed’s wrist…Ed’s asked him a question, Oswald’s sure, because he’s chewing on his lip, eyebrows tipped, clear concern that Oswald hasn’t responded yet evident in the way he tips his head to gaze down at Oswald.

Unsure how else to respond, Oswald simply smiles, hoping it comes off as encouraging for Ed to keep rambling about… _whatever_ he’s been talking about. The pounding force of raw _desire_ that’s been coursing through Oswald since Ed first started touching him with a single-minded _fixation_ has turned Oswald’s thoughts into nothing but the wash of waves hitting the shore and Ed’s words into the roar of the tides.

He has no idea what’s going on and the intention of exactly what this night _shouldn’t_ be is crashing all around him.

“But of _what?_ ” Ed asks.

“Yes,” Oswald answers, voice catching in his throat, snagging on raspiness. “Of course. Okay. That’s interesting, that’s good.”

“Oswald, I don’t—I don’t,” Ed fits his fingers together and stares at his own hands, looking concerned. “Does that mean you _do_ want a drink, because—”

“Vodka, on the rocks,” he blurts out, catching up on what Ed must have asked him. Ed beams and turns to try to flag down the bartender.

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” Zsasz calls out, causing Ed to turn and glare at him again. He dismisses Zsasz with a quick snap of his head back to the bar and Zsasz mutters a complaint under his breath.

“Buddy. Hey. Ozzie,” Zsasz taps Oswald on the shoulder—he’d been staring at the curve of Ed’s bent arm, tracing the contour of his lean frame downwards…

Zsasz taps him again and Oswald whips around, whacking at him to stop. “What is it?” he seethes, rolling his shoulder to try to shake away some of his shivers.

“You’re quiet tonight. _Bizarrely so._ All things considered, with what you said before we got here, maybe we should head out, leave—”

“Don’t you _dare_ suggest something like that _ever again_ ,” Oswald hisses, voice pitched deep. The sudden rage the flows through him cuts into his center and takes control of him in an instant. Zsasz throws a hand up, recognizing Oswald’s mood shift and he takes a step back with a half-smile tugging at his lips.

_He’s not even scared, he’s laughing at me. Typical._

After making sure he’s given his order, Ed drags his fingertips down the center of Oswald’s chest again, his eyes glazed over and mouth parted as he slides over the pleats in Oswald’s tuxedo shirt, _both_ of their minds far, far away from where they currently stand.

Ed thumbs one of the black buttons on Oswald’s shirt. Only three are available to his eyes, the rest obscured, hiding in places that _should_ only be imagined, not touched and certainly not mapped with his fingers. He trails over each one with wishes of unfastening them, to see what lies beneath, to lay eyes on a version of Oswald Cobblepot Ed hopes many people haven’t seen before.

“When did you become so important to me?” he ponders verbally, hazy eyes trained heavily on the folds of Oswald’s coat. Since the day Oswald first crossed Ed’s path, he’s become a large focal point in Ed’s life, a pinnacle of misunderstanding and mystery, an intriguing notion to someone like him, but time has seen the man transform into something more than an idea. He is tangible now, a feeling Ed revels in. “First it was apples and oranges and now…do we even have a fruit, or should it be a vegetable? We’re not of the norm, you and I,” Ed says, waving his hand between them, leaving it to brush across Oswald’s shoulder and down his arm as a new thought crosses his mind. “It could be nuts but those things are crazy.”

Keeping his face impassive for all of three seconds, Ed snorts rather uncouthly, then bursts into a fit of giggles. Bending over in joyful weakness, he rests his forehead on Oswald’s shoulder, fingers grasping the sleeves of his jacket. “Do you get it, O-Oswald?” he wheezes, “they’re _nuts_!” Ed’s knees buckle and eyes water as he loses himself to his mirth. This is the best he has felt in a long time and it was all thanks to Oswald and a few drinks… _the drinks!_

Snapping out of his seemingly endless bout of laughter, Ed throws himself at the bar, hands slapping down in time to receive his small collection of drinks. He smirks at the bartender and flicks him some money with the riddle on his tongue dying before it can be formed. _Oh well,_ Ed thinks with a shrug, balancing the three drinks (an appletini, a vodka and a whiskey) in his hands, _he’ll figure out the notes are counterfeit one way or another._

On instinct, as he makes his way back to Oswald’s side, Ed brings one of the beverages to his mouth, only to pull it away at the last second when the strong scent of alcohol burns his nose. The fumes alone are enough to get drunk on. Screwing up his face, Ed thrusts it in Oswald’s direction, sloshing the liquid about. “This isn’t mine. This—that is…Oswald, there are _poisons_ that smell better than that.”

“Thank you, Ed,” is the only response he is given as Oswald takes a sip, face free of contortion.

“How do you—is there something wrong with your palate or is your general orifice impervious to harm?”

Oswald’s face dances, eyebrows shifting, mouth gaping, leaving Ed to focus on the one thing that captures his attention. “Your cheeks are pink.”

A chortle of laughter sounds from somewhere beside them. “That’s disrespectful,” Ed chides, turning to face the bald man, who only straightens his spine and tilts his head.

“No, Eddie, what’s _disrespectful_ is you buying drinks for someone and then deciding to hoard them for yourself.” _Oh dear!_

“I’m not a dragon,” he grumbles in Kristen’s direction, bottom lip forced out in a pout. This is the _second_ time he has been roused on by her. Not wanting to aim for a third, he draws himself out of Oswald’s bubble and makes his way to her side, drinks held out in apology. Dark waters are to be avoided tonight and that includes the nature of Kristen’s drink.

Zsasz eyes the drinks in the Riddler’s hands. “You have to be kidding me. You two are _that_ devoted to your little aesthetics that your drinks of choice even match your personas? Good grief,” he shakes his head slightly, blinking to clear his mind. Oswald is half-grimacing, half-dazed, and Zsasz can tell the inside of Oswald’s mind must be full of nothing but worthless static, so he’s not going to appreciate Zsasz’s small, intentionally comedic meltdown over the _crime twins_ and their embarrassing ways.

“Thank heavens I was never assigned to either of your cases. Really, there’s room for improvement with this, though. Get her a little heart-shaped toothpick for the martini next time, right? And you, I’m sure you have a riddle about your whiskey, are you going to deliver it after you—”

Red grabs the tumbler glass out of the Riddler’s hands and both of them fix Zsasz with _identical_ shit-eating grins, as they both lift their respective drinks to their lips and take a sip, continuing to stare at him over the rims of their drink glasses.

“How is your whiskey?” Riddler asks Red.

“ _Perfect_. Finely aged! How’s your appletini?” she asks as she takes another sip.

“ _Delicious_ ,” he coos, swirling his finger around the rim of the martini glass. He bends down to stage-whisper in her ear. “I had them put a splash of absinthe in it!” he giggles, shoving the back of his hand against his mouth, his whole face crinkling up like a tissue.

She giggles back, fingers hovering over her lipstick, her dimples deepening with her laughter.

“Are you two for real?” Zsasz blurts out, and Oswald barks out a laugh that’s almost a _honk_. “Oh, welcome back,” Zsasz deadpans, turning to look at his best friend. “You’re back online I see.” Good thing Oswald’s look only metaphorically cuts like a dagger….

Rolling her eyes at Zsasz, Kristen turns to scan the crowd and the club at-large. Her _friends_ have been distracting her entirely to much tonight and she _is_ here to do a job, after all. The crowd is typical for the day of the week and time they’re there…hopefully the trend of typicality continues into Kristen “running into” her mark—tonight, she’s finally going to connect with the last name on the list Lee gave her. It’s time she meet the last leader of Gotham’s complex, fractured power system.

Dubbed “the Princess of Gotham”, owner of The Sirens, Lee’s club’s greatest competition, and the daughter of the reigning crime family herself, the woman Kristen seeks is no less than Barbara Kean herself. The gossip mills say since her last relationship failed, the only way to get in her good graces (or rather, a seat at her feet…) is to outdo the competition for who will capture Kean’s interest next, and Kristen has been plotting since the start how to get an audience with the women who believes herself to someday be _queen_.

Tonight is how she’s going to do it.

There’s a few people dressed in all black, fiddling with equipment on the main stage. Kristen had forgotten there was even a main performer tonight until she’d seen the posters of him outside, a still shot of him in an electric-blue suit, red hair sloppily slicked back and face almost crazed with the force of passion he channeled into his singing, mic stand between his legs as he bent over to belt into the mic. She didn’t listen to his music, but if she remembered correctly, Eddie might own one of his records, bearing the same image as the cover. The poster said he was performing hits from the _Maniax_ album, but it didn’t even say his name, the marketing assuming she should just _know_. Rolling her eyes, she scans the other side of the club, sipping her whiskey.

Someone shouts over the balcony behind her and she whips around, looking up to see what’s going on.

“We want Jerome!” some teenagers scream, slamming their palms against the railing. “Jerome! _Jerome_!”

“Get them _OUT OF HERE!_ ” a woman screams back, her voice so deafeningly loud and shrill, Kristen can actually make out each _word_ ,despite the distance.

So can all the people around her; even over the pounding music, some people turn to look in the same direction as her, and Kristen turns away, ducking her head down so they won’t notice her face. Facing Ed and Oswald again, she’s about to ask her partner if he’s alright (sometimes unexpected, loud noises startle him badly) but he’s totally unfazed. The sight that meets her is somehow _worse_ than Ed having a meltdown.

Pinching a paper umbrella between his fingers that he deftly plucked from the container on the bar, he bops Oswald Cobblepot on the face with it, feather-light taps in quick succession peppered across the man’s cheeks.

“Oh _no_ , where did they go? Where are your freckles, Mr. Penguin?” Ed asks in a goofy, mock-falsetto voice. His martini glass is already drained dry and Kristen slams her palm into her forehead. _Good god, we don’t allow him to get like this for a reason._

Cobblepot is completely still, eyes wide and mouth opened, a red flush taking his face over, despite the makeup Ed comment on him wearing. He bursts into giggles and tips his face up into Ed’s teasing onslaught, his abandoned glass of straight vodka empty on the bar, too.

“Well, that’s officially out of my hands now, I’m not responsible for what happens anymore,” Zsasz comments, causing Kristen to start. She forgot the other man was still lurking around. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he says, sipping a can of energy drink. He must’ve left to get something for himself after Ed made a show out of ignoring him. “Didn’t mean to be a jerk before, either, sorry if my humor came off crass. Nygma’s devotion to _green things_ is funny, you have to give me that.” Zsasz hums and breaks his sights off the odd duo, still giggling with each other, lost in their own little world. “Gotta admire a lady who knows what she likes, too,” he adds, gesturing to her glass.

“Yes, you do,” she turns on him, furrowing her brow. “And what she _doesn’t_.” Hopefully she doesn’t have to discourage him more then that…

“Oh, I’m not hitting on you, I’m this friendly with everyone, just ask around. I know I’m not your type.” He pauses, raising his brow. “You’re into the strong, powerful, _commanding_ kind of woman, aren’t you?” He smirks as she glares at him. “I’ve seen you around, down at the station,” he whispers, smirking back before striding over to Ed, snatching the umbrella out of his fingers, leaving him gapping as Zsasz flicks it into the trash can behind the bar, strolling away.

Ed’s entire face _crumbles_ and Kristen sighs heavily, stomping over to rectify this before it gets worse. “Eddie, honey, you need to restrain yourself, ok?” He looks down at her, eyebrows tipped in on themselves, his sadness increasing. Cobblepot is too busy flagging the bartender down, yelling that he _deserves_ to be served.

She fixes Ed with a hard look, dropping her voice a pitch down. “Cut it out. No tears unless you’re at home. You’re in public. Be _confident_ ,” she instructs, and waits for the realization of one of their keywords to sink through the alcohol-addled haze Ed’s clearly in. Momentary confusion crosses his face until her words sink in. He immediately turns to Oswald, their height difference so much more profound now that he’s standing straight. He plucks a bottle of vodka out of the cooler behind the bar, and with a flourish of his wrist, pours out a glass for Oswald and slides it off the bar, presenting it to him with a tight-lipped smirk. He drags a hand down the back of Oswald’s neck, Ed towers over him, his gaze bearing down. He looks like he wants to _devour_ the other man, and the predatory edge to it is a far cry from their earlier behavior—

“No, no no no, _Ed, no,_ ” Kristen pushes him away from Oswald, who is already retreating back, lips snarled in what seems like revulsion. Ed doesn’t even _think_ when he’s like this, when he’s lost in this variant of Riddler-mode. It’s like someone else overtakes him and it _scares_ Kristen. She snaps her fingers in front of his face, hand shaking. “Eddie, I said be _charming_.”

“No, you said _confident_ and I did what you asked. What did I do wrong? What—Oswald? Oswald, what did I do wrong?” His face dissolves into almost tearful fear.

“You…” Oswald looks to Kristen and back to Ed. “I don’t—nothing, Ed. Nothing. Excuse me a moment.” He pats a hand on Ed’s chest and pushes Kristen back without even _touching_ her; just from the sheer force with which he stalks forward, she has to retreat back, parting a way through the throng with her back. “ _What_ did you just _do_ to him? You said a word—”

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Kristen defends herself, “it’s a…a codeword-based system I helped him learn when he needs to—” _Needs to act a certain way to get through a social situation it would be too complicated to explain the nuance of to him when we’re on a job, he wanted to do it, he helped develop it—_

“He’s correct, I heard you, you said two _different_ words, and like _that_ ,” Oswald snaps his fingers in her face with such violence the sound makes her eye twitch, “Ed changed.”

A second of silence passes between them before Kristen speaks. “So have you,” she mutters, taking in the fierce gleam in his eyes. “You’re not the man who saved my life anymore.” _There’s no trace of the sad man who destroyed his own life to protect mine, not even in the flecks in those green eyes._ “He’s changed you.” She laughs, feeling victorious in one battle in the long-range war against Ed and his fluctuating identity. “Your every effect is supposed to change him in every permanent way, and yet he’s the one who has been chipping away at you.” Leaning into Oswald’s space, advancing on him in his moment of shock and awe, she whispers in his ear, “but I guess you’d have to stop thinking with your dick to notice that, wouldn’t you?” She fixes him with a look of mock shock at what she said as she marches away.

Stroking his arm lightly, Kristen tries to soothe her friend. “Eddie, just be yourself until I get back, ok? I have to go speak to someone.”

He nods and she makes for the balcony, knowing her target is likely still upstairs. _Time to focus._

“Hiya, dollface,” someone coos as she powers up the stairs, abandoning her glass at the bottom of the railing. Whipping around, looking for the source, she’s met face-to-face with the man from the poster. “Looking for me?”

“Not really,” she bites, trying to make out the frame of the man speaking to her. They’re in the dark and while he’s maintaining distance, she doesn’t want to speak with anyone except who she came with and Kean.

“Oh, you’re fiery, aren’t you? I like that, keeping my ego in check. Pretending you don’t know who I am—it’s convincing.”

_Would men please stop hitting on me? I never liked it, even when I was lost enough to think I was straight. It’s confusing and creepy._

“I honestly have no idea who you are,” she shakes her head in confusion.

He steps forward and his resemblance to the man on the posters is revealed in the simplest way. Kristen sighs, shoulders sagging. A club full of fans and the one person who doesn’t want to speak to him gets a private audience. Wrong mark, wrong scenario.

 _Tonight’s quite the mess, huh?_ her negative self-talk taunts.

“Wow, you really don’t know or _care_ ,” he laughs. “you are keeping me in check, then. What a surprise. It’s hard to not get bored with it all, you know? Then someone like you comes along and—”

“Yes, I agree, excuse me,” she cuts in, seizing the opportunity to lose herself in a group of corporate types, trashed since happy hour, and passes back down the stairs and along the dance floor. She’ll have to wait out his set, and _then_ , when Kean has nothing left to keep her interested in the evening, Kristen can make her move.

Until then, she has unfinished business—but first, she’s earned herself a drink.

Heading back to the bar, she scoops her phone and her wallet full of fake bills out of Ed’s pocket, not even sparing more than a passing glance at whatever bizarreness he and Cobblepot are getting up to _now_. Fresh whiskey in hand, she heads towards one of the windows, typing on her phone. 

_I’m sorry I haven’t been in contact in forever,_ she begins, biting her lip, mouth now full of the taste of worn-out lipstick she’ll need to freshen up later. _A case consumed me and I’ve been nonstop since._

Kristen considers what else to say to Valerie. The chances of them still dating at this point are obviously passed, thanks to Kristen’s abandonment of investing whatsoever into the very possibility of one, but she hopes she can at least reconnect with Valerie, possibly transition into being friends. 

Besides, it’s time she finally asks the dreaded question. 

Her phone buzzes and Kristen’s shoulders leap back. 

_Heya stranger_ , the message received reads. _I’d be a bit hurt if I wasn’t totally guilty of the same thing myself when I’m busy. What’s going on in your neck of the woods for you to finally reach out?_

 _You’ve been chasing wolves and begging them to make-pretend and become your grandma,_ her intrusive thoughts snark about the situation. 

_I’m that transparent?_ Kristen writes back. _Sorry, I don’t mean to be._

_It’s fine, you caught me at a good time. We’re smoking out tonight’s hit and it’s slow going._ There’s a second buzz as Valerie texts again. _The drive upstate was at least nice!_

Kristen smiles, wondering if the easy-going, unattached attitude is something Valerie always has possessed or if it came from _being_ an assassin for so long. 

_Do you remember the massacre on 8th street about a month and a half ago?_ Kristen asks, sipping her drink and leaning against the wall to look out the window, watching the cars pass by and the helicopter lights criss-cross the city skyline. 

_Yeah—what sicko did that? No rhyme or reason to it. Makes me mad! It’s why people don’t see my work as the artform it is, not with that garbage making a joke of it._

Dropping her head against the glass pane, Kristen sighs so heavily she almost swears she feels the pinprick of tears in her eyes. Valerie’s honesty is all the answer she needs as to whether this was something that could be pinned on one of her people, and not Ed. Now the only lead Kristen has left is Barbara Kean; Kristen doesn’t like the feeling of the odds stacking so against her favor. _Fish is probably right…she’s probably right…_

 _It’s something only a psychopath could pull off. A real monster. If you hear anything about who did it, would you let me know?_ Kristen stares at the screen before giving in and writing another message herself. _It’s for a friend. I hate to ask this of you, because I consider you my friend, too._

_Aww, Red, that’s cute. You’re cute, you know that? I’ll be sure to exploit our friendship for my own work someday, too ;) LOL_

Kristen texts back a heart, just as the band behind her strikes up. 

“Hello, Gotham City!” Jerome roars, and the crowd goes wild. With her forehead still against the glass, Kristen closes her eyes and tries to steady herself for the last shot she has. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, drunk Ed is a riot, huh? So handsy, not that Oswald is complaining. The nightclub scene is a chapter we have been looking forward to writing for a while now as we can finally see the dynamic between Oswald and Ed shifting. They've already had such a long journey and there is so much more to come. 
> 
> The next chapter will see the characters enjoying their night in the club. Kristen will be continuing to make moves to prove Ed's innocence, striking up a conversation with the Princess of Gotham, whereas Ed couldn't be more fazed. Not with Oswald beside him.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read. It is such a long chapter, but we hope you enjoyed every word of it!


	8. Drunk on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night at the Sirens continues. It's filled with banter, drinks, dancing and an indulgent hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. The good news is that we are back, and we have a few chapters typed up which we'll slowly share over the coming days. That's it, there's no bad news.
> 
> Happy reading!

Kristen’s a few whiskeys in by the time she finds herself hiding out in the bathroom, fixing her lipstick, as she waits for the show to finish so the dance floor will open up again. Jerome (she’s heard his name screamed enough times, unfortunately, to not forget it now) is still singing, and Kristen dabs at her lips, bored and restless. Tired of her absentminded activity, she fixes her outfit once more and leaves, and just in time—the show seems to be coming to an end, _finally_ , by the time she makes her way back to the bar.

Eddie is sitting with Cobblepot now, both of their jackets discarded and hanging on the back of their seats at the bar. Cobblepot is rubbing Eddie’s knee with his hand, and Ed’s blushing, chin to his chest, his hair flopping out of place. Ed keeps brushing it back out of the way, eyes shining while he smiles. Kristen rolls her eyes, then quirks her lip—this is the first time it seems someone Ed likes likes him back. She shouldn’t be so hateful over it, especially now that she knows Cobblepot is equally as driven by the same thing Ed is. _Let them have their fun,_ she decides.

“Never thought I’d see this tonight,” Zsasz says, propping his arm up on Red’s shoulder. It’s quickly shrugged off but he only laughs and takes a sip of his energy drink before he begins bouncing on the balls of his feet. “When Oswald ordered me to come along—do you know how demanding he can be? Almost rivals Fish and that’s saying something.”

Red’s brows twitch and so does Zsasz’s lips. He wants to say something about the captain, dig into the reason Red was in her office, but he’s made enough of a mess in Fish’s life for one day. It’s best to put that on the back burner for now, besides…Oz is a _great_ conversation piece. “You know he warned me about this back at my place, not clearly mind you, as he was too busy digging around in his head.” Red’s eyes widen only to, seconds later, narrow as she flicks her gaze to Oswald.

“There’s nothing to worry about there,” Zsasz continues, strumming the tab of his can repeatedly, “Oz didn’t realize he lost the fight before we even arrived…but as a good friend I _tried_ to remind him that I was brought here to keep him in check and do you know what I received for my efforts? His temperamental ass snapping at me!” A boisterous laugh escapes free from Zsasz’s throat, momentarily drowning out the sound of the evening’s _entertainment_ before it drives back in. Oswald’s shenanigans are more noteworthy than the performance on stage. _At least I’m getting some enjoyment out of tonight_ , he thinks.

“Your partner’s no better, mind you. Look at the way he reaches out for Oz every few seconds. He’d climb into his lap if given half the chance and I doubt that’d be argued against.” Pausing to take a sip of his drink, Zsasz watches the pair before him. Ed’s mouth is moving constantly, until he’slulled into a state of awe whenever Oswald says or does something to make him drop his head with a blush. For a crook, he has way too much innocence. “They’re both lost to each other, there’s no reclaiming them tonight.”

Kristen goes to speak, drops a finger to her chin, and pauses before speaking again. “He…brought you along…solely to _stop_ him from doing _this?_ ” She extends her finger out at the odd pairing. “So you’re a chaperone…no, what do men call it, a _cockblock_?” A few drinks always loosens up Kristen’s proprietary and she lets her mouth run, saying blunt truths she normally would veer from. It’s also one of the freedoms awarded her when she’s playing Red.

“Well, I can’t criticize you, I know I couldn’t stop this, even if someone said I had to.” She shakes her head, eyelashes flicking as she rolls her eyes. “Ed’s always been…oh, never mind that.” Deciding against sharing any more details with this man, Kristen turns and cuts into his view, tapping her chin, studying Zsasz. Since he wasn’t expected company, she hadn’t had time to do any _research_ on him, but some of his mysteries are clearly on display. She smiles sardonically, as Zsasz’s eyes jerk back and forth, once he realizes she’s sizing him up.

“Are all of Fish’s employees ex-criminals, or is it just you and Oswald?” she asks, quirking her eyebrow. “I mean, I’m excluding _her_ being one of them, too. In my world, once you’re in charge, it’s impolite to act like there was ever a time the boss wasn’t on top.”

“Speaking of ignoring things, _you and Oswald_ …you’re handling that well, from what I can see—I’m impressed!” Drumming the tips of her fingers under her lips, she narrows her eyes, studying the steely stance Zsasz slides into. “Does Oswald _know_ that you’re watching him, and enjoying it, to boot? If not, I’ll keep it a secret, don’t be concerned—none of this,” she gestures behind her, “needs to get more ridiculous.” _Or take up more of the evening_ , she internally complains.

“What’s not to like? I didn’t take you for one so prudish, Red.” Zsasz straightens with a smirk and swallows down the last of his drink, wishing he had something stronger. There’s no use keeping himself sober for Oswald’s sake. Not anymore. That moment’s long since passed. “Where’s the harm in watching, Oswald’s always been interesting to observe. You like watching people too, don’t you, Red? Not _them_ ,” Zsasz says, gesturing over her shoulder as he steps into her space. “No, they don’t hold your attention. Not when you’ve got your eyes on much bigger _fish_.”

With a swipe of his tongue over his teeth, Zsasz worms his way around her and heads for the bar, waving down one of the bartenders within seconds. He smiles at her, winks and returns to Red’s side with a beer in hand. “So…the captain, huh? I saw you there the other day. You didn’t have eyes for anyone else.”

Kristen lifts her eyebrows, shrugging with them instead of her shoulders. “So, the captain. _What’s not to like?_ ” she challenges Zsasz, each word dancing off her tongue. “Mmm,” she hums, observing his quickly bugged-out eyes. “Never mind, not your type. So you _do_ have some preferences.” He didn’t strike her as the sort who cared much.

“You can calm your wild imagination, you _voyeur_. Nothing happened and nothing will. I was there on business.” She blanches a little as she remembers her definition of _business_ can change in an instant, depending on her mark, and in about fifteen minutes, he’s going to have material to mock her with for God only knows how long. _Wait, when did I start assuming I would see this guy again?_ she questions. He is amusing, and he can keep up with her. Being taunted isn’t any fun, but if it’s mutual, it’s exactly her form of amusing.

Zsasz grins over the tip of his beer bottle and swallows down a few mouthfuls. An excited energy is buzzing inside of him as he forms his next retort, words ready to escape just as soon as he lowers his hand. “ _Business_ doesn’t look like you’re ready to consume someone or praise the heavens for their existence. Could you have hugged your files any closer to your chest? Tip for you, Red…stick with your current look, Fish doesn’t _do_ bookish.”

Unable to stay still on his feet, Zsasz walks a slow circle around Red. The game they have immersed themselves in is much too fun. They hardly know each other, but therein lies the challenge. With Fish and Oswald, there are certain limits Zsasz has to be wary of, in favor for keeping his head. With Red the possibilities are endless, although the content lacking. _Makes things interesting_. “You know,” he says beaming down at her, teeth on display, “after you left the station, I asked Fish about you.”

“And what did she have to say about her little _bookish_ visitor to someone like _you?_ ” she drawls, recognizing with his pacing that he’s _totally_ ready for whatever challenge the two of them are now wrapped up in. “Am I next on the list of pet projects for your department to meet its quota of reformed ex-cons, or was it to just compliment my beauty, brains, and charm?”

She smiles, grin so wide it pinches her cheeks. She clasps her hands on either side of her face, wiggling her fingers. “I just _love_ knowing people have something to say about me, don’t you, too? Oh, but you’re left out, aren’t you? Poor thing. Take them, for instance,” she throws her head back, not turning or pointing at Ed and Oswald otherwise. “They don’t even remember you’re here! At least I make myself a presence known.”

“And what presence is that? One of annoyance?” Zsasz laughs unobstructedly, fingers tightening around his bottle, at the mock hurt look that passes over Red’s face. She slaps a hand to her chest, mouth hung open, lips pulling at the sides before wiping it clean, mirth still shining in her eyes. “Oz and your green-loving appletini drinker can’t be called upon for anything right now. There’s some kid singing, what I _assume_ to be music, it’s blasting all around us, mixing in with…well, I’ve heard screams of pain more pleasing—and what do _they_ do?”

Nodding his head, Zsasz waits for her to spin around and catch sight of what he has been keeping tabs on for the majority of the night. The clerk and the criminal. “They drink and they touch, they imagine getting each other off again and again because they don’t know what will happen if they make it their reality. You think anyone can get between them? I don’t really want to. I’m happy being an observer, a _voyeur…_ but are you?” he whispers into Red’s ear, cackling slightly, “or is catch and release more your game?”

“Well, I know S&M is one of yours now, thanks for oversharing that particular detail,” Kristen groans and crosses her arms. “Catch and release? Can’t say I’m familiar with the tactic. I’m much more interested in…” Well, Kristen doesn’t actually know _how_ to describe it. It’s still relatively new to her, after all. Perhaps it would be—

“Oh god, is that supposed to be another bad _fish pun?_ ” she asks, incredulous. Zsasz’s beaming grin in return does nothing but aggravate her; she stops a foot and tosses her hair over her shoulder, turning away. “You’re an _embarrassment_ , how are you even like this?”

The damn band cuts into her playful bullying with the most jarring screech of feedback noise. Zsasz flinches next to her, putting a hand up while he turns his head, as if he can ward the sound away with a gesture. “We are completely in agreement over the music, _trust me_ ,” she shouts, ears ringing. Zsasz does nothing but nod solemnly, his eyes half-closed. The band scrambles off the stage, not before hollering and stomping around first; one of them smashes their guitar into their amp. Why a nightclub would host an awful, raucous band like this, instead of having live music that encourages people to drink, mingle, and dance, is beyond Kristen—

“Hello and good evening, dear Gothamites,” a woman’s clear voice rings out through the club, sharp, bright, and theatrical.

…And there’s the answer to that question.

Kristen, along with almost everyone else in the club’s eyes head in the same direction—above. A blonde woman waves a bedazzled microphone back and forth, her long arms dangling off the railing she’s leaning across, wearing square-shaped bracelets on both wrists that light up different neon colors, the changing prism rhythmic and pulsing in its movement. Her necklace matches and does the same thing. Her whole image is surreal, futuristic and also unbelievable, yet it fits her, from her platinum hair in it’s sharp bob, to her silver dress that looks like crumpled taffeta.

“Welcome to the Sirens,” she intones, smiling darkly at the people beneath her. “I hope you all enjoyed the show. If you don’t know me yet, I’m Barbara Queen—sorry,” she arches a hand, fingers splayed across her collarbones, wrist jutting forward, and turns her head away in mock shame, “I meant Barbara _Kean_ , and I’m so glad you could all come join me here at my _little_ club.”

 _It’s time._ Kristen leaps into action, bounding towards Eddie.

“Wait!” she stops herself, zipping back over to Zsasz. “Sorry, not you,” she explains, heaving for breath already from nerves. “Have work to do. This was fun! Come over, play poker with me some time. It’s hard to find a _talented_ bullshitter in this city, but you’ve got it. Anyway, don’t let Oswald interrupt!”

Zsasz blinks at her as she slides towards Ed, tapping his shoulder. “Eddie, Eddie, come on, time to get to work,” she tells him, scooping his glasses off his face and folding them up. She drops them on the bar counter, trying to get him away before he (or Oswald, at this rate) can put up much protest. “Remember that gala we crashed last Christmas? Right, that, but dirtier this time, ok?”

Ed boggles in response, reaching out for Oswald and his glasses.

“Eddie, come on, _please_ ,” Kristen complains. Kean is just about finished chattering, _bragging_ about herself, the audience giggling in all the right spots, and Kristen knows the dance floor will be flooded immediately after her speech is finished. With any luck, Kean will watch the first few minutes of dancing, waiting for someone to catch her eye—which is why Kristen has planned this evening exactly how she has. If it’s Eddie who captures Kean’s eye, and is offered a chance to visit the private VIP booth where she spends the evening, Kristen will have to improvise—it’s not what she has planned, but at least it would be a way in. Hopefully it’s Kristen _herself_ who is the one to entice Kean, which will give Kristen the private audience with the most heavily-guarded woman in all of Gotham that she’s been seeking the last five weeks.

And Kristen plans on giving a _damn_ fine performance. Thankfully, she can trust Ed with pulling something like this off; he’s good at being a safety net and a pole all at once. Kristen couldn’t run this particular scam with just anyone, which is why she needed him to come out with her tonight, no questions asked, and preferably, with no interferences…

Ed’s being reluctant to get up—Kristen knows him well enough to know he doesn’t like the throng of dancers, certainly doesn’t want to be dragged into their midst.

“Eddie! Be _suave!_ ” she commands, patting his chest, as she drags his hand around her waist. A terrible secret about Ed is that he will do almost whatever someone asks, if that person is someone he loves. Kristen only has ever exploited this once—and that night isn’t something she wants to think about right now, not with her limbs alight with kinetic, nervous energy. She only even asks him to do things that don’t hurt him. That’s the point of love, after all—to promise to never hurt someone. “Just for one song,” she whispers, “you remember how—go on, be suave.”

And like that, the transformation begins.

Ed drops to his feet and runs a hand down his tie, smoothing out the fabric, as he shifts mindsets. _Be suave._ He stands taller, harnessing his confidence and nods over the smile playing on his lips. Suave is something he knows how to be—it’s another mask he is accustomed to wearing. It serves a purpose and so does he. “Let’s get to work then, Red.” Even his voice takes on a different idiolect, tone altering itself alongside his mannerisms. He’s not wholly unaware the change takes place: a switch is flicked, igniting key aspects of Ed’s personality, and stifling others. It’s not unpleasant. These are things Ed’s taps into when he is the Riddler, drawing forth a noticeable presence, amongst other things. They’re necessary and they’re fun. Working with Kristen is often entertaining.

Rolling his shoulders, Ed draws Kristen close to his side, ducking his head to speak into her ear. “Shall we get started?” She doesn’t answer, nor does she need to. Ed wouldn’t have been called upon unless he was needed, so now he acts. Stepping forward he follows her lead out onto the dance floor but not before he throws Oswald a smile and a look he hopes is somewhat reassuring. Despite the fact that he’d rather spend his entire night by Oswald’s side, basking in his attention and gratuitous touches, Ed promised Kristen he’d help her out and if a dance is all that he is needed for, he’ll happily comply. It’s not illegal, nor is it dangerous.

They worm their way through the compacting crowd and Ed’s lip curls in distaste. All those people pushing and pulling, the overwhelming heat pouring off their soon to be sweat-slickened bodies. _Animals._ He positions his elbow outwards so the next person who bumps into him shuffles away just as quickly. Within moments Ed and Kristen reach the center of the room and Ed spins her around once before drawing her close, timing his actions with the low thumps of the music.

“The gala was a lot more formal than this,” he says, brushing Kristen’s hair over her shoulder with one hand, trailing the other down her side, “but that never stopped you from setting your own beat.” She smiles at him. Ed catches the stretch of her red painted lips through the blur his vision has become without his glasses, and he laughs. The gala, masked and formal, filled with the aristocrats of Gotham gathering together in the name of charity…even the mayor was there. Naturally, Ed and Kristen couldn’t stay away. They arrived like any other grandiose guests, and left slightly rumpled with a collection of valuables and information as compensation for dealing with the hoity-toity bunch. It was a profitable night.

A tug to his tie, brings Ed back into the present. He is lead around in a small circle before he captures Kristen by the waist and draws her back in. Thankfully he never has to do too much during these scenes. It’s all about making sure Kristen is noticed, accentuating her movements with the well-timed hand placements he was taught many years ago. _That was an embarrassing lesson,_ Ed recalls as Kristen spins on her heel, flicking her hair around her neck and backs onto him with a shimmy of her hips. Even without his glasses on, Ed knows people have began to stare at them. He can feel their gazes prickling all over his skin, tingling, filling him with an excited energy which he uses to fuel his actions. Shuffling to the beat, Ed trails his fingers down Kristen’s sides, digging them in on the stroke up.

“I’ve missed working with you,” he says, ducking his head and it’s true…Ed has missed this, _them_ : Red and the Riddler. Years of being best friends and crime partners couldn’t be erased. If only he didn’t black out and slip up, they could still be doing this, having fun, further cultivating a name for themselves, basking in the attention side-by-side. “I know things are changing, but I’ll always be here for you.” He doesn’t know why now is the time he decided to speak about this—his voice is barely detectable to his own ears, but he feels it’s necessary until Kristen tells him, “Not now, Eddie,” and, with that, he pushes it to the side and shifts back into his _suave_ self _._

His head is swimming, too much alcohol and heat makes it hard to focus. Grasping Kristen by the waist, he shifts his hands and splays his digits on her stomach and raises his head. Ed flicks his eyes around the room and squints through the blur. The thumping of the music rattles his chest, offsetting the beat of his heart. _This is why I don’t come to clubs often._ Kristen’s head rests on his shoulder and she guides his palms over her body. Ed follows the flicker of her gaze above him and smirks. _The Princess…really, Kristen?_ Now that his voiceless questions are answered, Ed can act easier. His hands glide up and down, fingers curling, feet moving, and towards the end of the seemingly endless song, Ed peers up to the woman on the balcony.

“Your mark’s watching you,” he relays, pressing his face into Kristen’s red hair.

Kristen thrusts the back of her shoulders into Ed’s chest, as she slowly slides down the front of his body, arms above her head, sinking until she’s almost sitting on the back of her heels. Kean raises an eyebrow at the move, her mouth sliding into a smirk on the other side of her face.

“So is yours,” Kristen answers him as she arches back up, tossing her hair in front of her face and making a pointed show of pretending Ed’s hands on her hips is having any sort of effect on her. This is the most important part of the dance—not the actual movements on the floor, but the spectacle she’s putting on. Ed acting detached from the whole thing, and Kristen doing all the work, embodying a flame that has nothing to do but burn and consume itself should appeal to The Princess’ ego. Every motion of Kristen’s is engineered to communicate the clear message _imagine how much better of a job you could do if_ you _were the one touching me_ —she throws her head in the opposite direction, miming an impassioned gasp as Ed slides his palms, one above the other, across her torso.

The song is almost over, and she pointedly stares at Kean, rocking side-to-side, her joints loose and rolling. With another look over toward the stairs, her eyes catch Oswald’s again, as he stands stock-still at the bar, mouth slightly parted, just how he looked a minute or two ago. Kristen reaches behind her for Ed’s jaw, turning his head in the direction of his infatuation. “You should see the way he’s staring at you. Mmm, like he wants to peel you off me and glue you to the nearest surface, instead.” She stage-shoves Ed’s face away, and Kean raises her eyebrows in approval. Pulling away from the railing, Barb turns and retreats to the VIP booth, head turned behind her to admire Kristen once more. _Oh god, it’s worked,_ Kristen realizes. That was a clear invitation.

Keeping up the ruse until the song changes will give her the opportunity to exit the dance floor with the least amount of attention. Until then, many eyes are on her and Ed, so it’s best they pretend to be nothing more than another couple on the floor. “Leave after this and go find out for yourself,” she tells Ed, referring to Oswald, her head pressed into his chest, both of them dancing close but without the previous level of effort they exerted before.

The mention of Oswald’s attention is enough to snap Ed out of his current mindset. _Suave_ all but gives way to his usual personality, but he retains enough confidence that he manages to continue dancing with Kristen, hands settling in more respectable places. He trains his gaze in Oswald’s direction and squints. _What does he look like? Does he…want me like that?_ Ed chews on his bottom lip as his cheeks begin to burn. _I should have worn contacts._ He wants to see the look for himself but the entire notion is enough to render him instantly breathless. His tie may have well constricted around his throat for the lack of air is dizzying or perhaps it is the knowledge that he holds Oswald’s stare that produces this feeling.

“Do you think—do you know if…Kristen, is Oswald interested in me?” Ed queries as he runs his palms down her arms. Ed hopes so but he can’t be certain of _anything_ when it comes to Oswald and the influx of alcohol doesn’t help his cognition in the slightest. _Maybe I can ask him?_ He thinks, eyebrows pinched, _no, that wouldn’t go well._

~~~

Both men lock eyes for a moment that narrows down everything else happening around them to only each other, before they both break away, Ed returns to his dancing and Oswald to his drink. _I’m lucky I’m sitting down_ , Oswald thinks to himself, blood _pounding_ in his veins as he downs his drink. He waves down the bartender for a refill while he’s still mid-swallow, greedily watching the flow of vodka from the bottle’s spout cascade over the ice left in his glass.

After Ed’s partner came and dragged him away, Oswald kept a close eye on the pair, waiting to see what it was they were going to do. He supposed he was responsible for stopping Ed from committing some kind of crime, as dictated by Ed’s assigned role for him, but mostly, Oswald felt deprived of the man’s presence—they’d been having a nice conversation, not that Oswald could remember a word of it. It mostly involved Ed rambling at length about every obscure fact that entered his head, which Oswald simply nodded along with, smiling with a single laugh here and there. Beholding Ed’s endless enthusiasm was endearing, and Oswald nodded and repeated _okay, okay,_ as Ed sped up his talking, making all kinds of motions with his hands and fingers to demonstrate his points, while Oswald let the alcohol convince him it was perfectly acceptable to reach out and touch Ed back, caressing him as Ed’s been doing to him all evening.

Of course the partner needed to come interrupt. Oswald fumed about it, watching Ed be taken away, until his mind switched gears so forcefully that it blanked out his mind and made him lose his grip, in more ways than one.

The partner dances against Ed, who rubs his hands along her smaller frame in time to her movements. There’s a pointed lack of interest in both parties that is obvious to anyone observant, but a few people near them seem to fall for the spectacle instead, which Oswald assumes is the point. Ed’s code-switching ability unsettles Oswald on some level, and the fake persona holds no interest to him—no, what captures his undivided focus are Ed’s _hands_.

Oswald and she are about the same height, so observing how Ed drapes himself around her, to fit, not even attempting to take a dominant role in their performance, makes Oswald’s skin prickle. Ed reacts to her every movement; hands gliding, hips rocking, the bits of his bangs that never stay in place falling forward again. It’s immediate how Oswald’s imagination replaces her, as his eyes strain to focus only on Ed, a shiver running up his spine and searing heat pooling in his core as he imagines those hands roving over his own body, those breathy little tells Ed has been giving away all night being gasped in Oswald’s ear as he rolls his body languidly against Oswald.

He might have loved and lived in the club scene in his youth, but there were very few times he’d hit the dance floor himself. Something always held him back—he might be the kind of man who would rather get something done than worry about _confidence_ or any other illusion that inhibits others, but there have always been some aspects of his life that he couldn’t bridge the gap—not for lack of _trying_ , _not_ , for lack of interest. Still, his mind slides right into the vivid fantasy of _him_ being the one to dance with Ed like that: Oswald’s hands reaching back to grip Ed’s hips as he grinds against him, back pressed to Ed’s chest. He’d let go, only to guide Ed’s hands down his chest, down the front of his _pants_ , Ed groaning as they slide against each other; nothing but the pounding beat would remain as they would lose themselves to each other’s touch.

Could Oswald even _move_ like that now? He grips his cane tighter, still gripping the handle of it because it grounds him, quaking with the lust and frustration that’s flooded him. Ed’s _constant_ touches all evening _already_ chipped away at Oswald enough—already had had enough of an effect. Now he wants Ed back here _immediately_ , wants Ed’s hands all over his body, those touches to belong to him and him _only_. There’s no jealousy to direct at anyone, but rather a rise to claim ownership of Ed’s attention that sparks through Oswald, whiting his mind out. It’s hard to breathe, knowing, _watching_ what Oswald could have and is denied him!

He breaks away his stare only long enough to gulp down his drink, longing for something he can’t surmise if he can have or not. Fingers gripping the glass tightly, he waits for Ed to return, and for his blood to cool.

~~~

“If you could see what I saw, it was obvious,” Kristen comments, swaying gently, as the song begins bleeding into the next one, the DJ showing off with the layered transition. “You’ll see for yourself in a minute, when I leave.”

Turning around, she slides away from Ed—both of them reflexively grab each other’s arms, and it’s not until Kristen pulls far enough away that their fingers pass each other, slipping through each other’s grasp as they part. With a wink, she vanishes into the crowd. _I’m doing this all for you_ , she smiles to herself, leaving him behind. If she’s honest with herself…it’s nice to start to come into her own, too.

It’s only a minute or two until she’s dashed up the stairs and stands before some of Kean’s security detail. One of them nods and lets Kristen pass; she’s not armed, but still, she’s grateful Kean doesn’t have her potential _amours_ patted down—might be a bit of a mood killer, and there’s no doubt the other side of the door won’t reveal _even_ more bodyguards…once Kristen sees she’s correct, she’s almost before Kean, who is sitting cross-legged and sipping a martini, grinning at Kristen in a way that could almost be a sneer.

“Nice moves out there,” she drawls, sitting forward and placing her martini down. “Glad you had time to ditch your boring _boytoy_ and come pay me a visit.”

“Are you kidding? You’re the one doing _me_ a favor,” Kristen says, smoothing her skirt down to take a seat across from Kean, whose mouth twitches in response to that. _No good?_ Kristen wonders, shifting gears into something more ego-stroking, as she wraps a hand over her own collarbone and grasps the back of her neck. “Your club is beautiful, but the only reason I came was to—well,” she laughs, tipping her head down, waves falling in front of her face, the best imitation of the normal behaviors Kristen showed when she was being bashful.

“You came for our esteemed _guest_ , I presume?” Kean drums her fingers on her own knee, raking her eyes over Kristen.

“ _No_ ,” Kristen quavers, rubbing her thumbs together. “I actually hoped I might end up right where I’m sitting, hoping to be good enough to catch your eye.”

Kean chuckles. “The flattery is cute, but you don’t have to lay it on so thick. Go back to how you were before. I’m not going to _bite you_ —not yet.” She laughs uproariously, head thrown back. Kristen blushes, despite herself. Calming down, Kean takes a sip of her drink and appraises Kristen again. “I think I’ve seen you before,” she ponders, twisting her glass back and forth in the condensation. “How close are you with Leslie Thompkins?” Kean’s face goes dark, and she stares at Kristen with narrowed eyes.

“I know her. Of her, honestly. A girl can know people,” Kristen shrugs, and digs a nail into her own knee as she looks at one of the body guards. “Aren’t one of you going to offer me a drink?”

“Yes, please, bring Miss—”

“You don’t get out of your tower much, do you?” Kristen hums shrugging. “If you don’t recognize me already…”

“You’re saying you see yourself as someone special, then.”

“Don’t you agree?”

“I agree with the miss,” Jerome counters, stepping forward. Kristen hadn’t even realized he was up here! “She is someone special.”

“Go _away_ ,” Kean chides, glaring at him. “Who let him back in here!” she barks at her detail. “ _Wrong ginger!_ ” she roars, hair shaking with the force of her scream. The guard who let Kristen in steps forward to escort Jerome out, but he waves them off, leaving on his own, not before teasingly wishing them both a good night.

“So, you’re not here to see him, clearly. No man can hold your interest, can he?” Kean remarks, as someone sets a whiskey in front of Kristen. The fact that they knew her drink without asking confirms for her that there’s eyes all over the club—exactly why she’d tried to keep a low profile all night.

“No man,” Kristen confirms—not a day goes by she isn’t grateful to have discovered and come to terms with that fact— “And only the most striking of women.”

“Lee Thompkins is hot,” Kean raises her eyebrows, gives half a shrug. “Doesn’t pain me to say it, it’s the truth. But you brush her off…she must be lacking something you _desperately_ want,” Kean leans across the table; they could touch if Kristen leaned forward as well. It’s an invitation—it’s a challenge, as well.

“She holds none of my interest, but then again, she tends to have that effect on people, doesn’t she?” It’s one of the worst lies Kristen’s ever told, and it amazes her that it comes out sounding believable enough. She’d been madly in love with Lee for over a year; even now, she still gets a vague set of flutters around her, even though her feelings have long past. Maybe the whole debacle with Jim proved useful after all, since it got Kristen over her puppy crush and focused on literally _anything else._

“Is that a dig about Jim Gordon?” Kean asks, grinning wildly. “Oh, please, you won’t offend me—he was nothing but my employee, in the end. That’s what the fight was about. Besides, who in life isn’t ultimately replaceable?”

“You,” Kristen answers quickly, noting the exact place to land a devastating hit, for who _doesn’t_ want to hear such sweet words? She fakes a sip of the drink given to her and stands up, gliding away. “And maybe me, too. Let’s see. If I come back next week, will you see me?”

Rolling her eyes, Kean settles back on the couch and sighs. “It’s always so _slow_ with women. But _so_ worth it. It’s a deal. I’ll have another chat with you, if I haven’t replaced you yet.”

“You won’t,” Kristen says, smiling before she turns and exits. She’s taking her cons longer now—Kean is the hardest, and it’s best if she warms up to her slowly. The chances of finding out immediate intel on Ed’s supposed crime are becoming less and less Kristen’s goal after this incredible success—there’s so much fun, and _power_ , to be had in meeting all the various leaders of Gotham, in figuring out what makes each of them tick. Ed loves to confound his victims with his puzzles—Kristen’s passion is fast becoming being the problem- _solver_ herself—the woman who knows all the secrets.

Before she lets herself get too overwhelmed with feelings of pride, she has to get her company and _get out of the club_. Rounding her way back to the bar, she spots Zsasz and flags him down discretely, but he doesn’t spare her so much as a glance. What the hell has captured his interests— _oh god._ She turns to look, and Ed is pressed almost flush against Oswald. For a split-second, she thinks they’re making out, until she sees Oswald tip his face back, mouth open, fingers twitching along Ed’s biceps, red blush across his cheeks and his eyes closed. Ed’s half-bent over, his face buried in the collar of Oswald’s shirt.

~~~

It isn’t the thumping of the music that sends Ed’s heart racing, nor the overcrowded room. It isn’t even the feeling of one too many drinks coursing through him that made themselves known shortly after the dance ended. It’s the subtle touch of Oswald’s hands as they come to rest on Ed’s waist, making his head spin. Eight days was entirely too long of a time to be spent apart, and despite his attempts to distract himself, Ed couldn’t keep his mind from drifting back to Oswald. _It’s always been him._ What he wouldn’t have given to hear his voice, to see his face, to reach out and touch him just as he can now. His imagination could not compare to the physical, emotional, and mental sensations his reality offers freely. Craning his neck, Ed trails his nose up and down the expanse of Oswald’s throat, chasing the delicate undertones of his musk-based cologne.

“I’ve missed you,” he confesses, eyelids falling closed, weighed down by the headiness that is consuming him. Replacing the tip of his nose with the softest whisper of his lips, Ed mouths down Oswald’s neck, narrowly resisting the urge to flick out his tongue to taste him. Oswald shudders and Ed takes notice of the way his grip tightens, fingers curling and pressing firmer. If he had access to the smallest semblance of his mental faculties Ed _might_ have been able to retain the sound of his name as it parts Oswald’s lips, for when it reaches his ear, it’s almost _erotic._

“I’ve missed you,” Ed repeats, as his hands transverse Oswald’s back, tracing his muscles and skeletal structure, taking in every fiber of his shirt. Ed perceives it all—his senses have never felt more alight, awash in all that is Oswald. The warmth seeping into his body, the low thumps of the music that echo within, the _smells_. Only sight and taste evade Ed as he nuzzles his cheek against Oswald’s, connection met and reciprocated.

Ed inches closer, and all background stimulus melts away as his hand shift to Oswald’s front, cascading over his shoulders and down his chest. His name— _Ed_ —sounds again. Is it in warning or in praise? He cannot tell. All Ed knows is that Oswald is not pushing him away, in fact, it is quite the opposite; he is clutched closer, arms curling around him, palms splayed on his back, evermoving. A tingle runs through Ed’s body, traversing every nerve and this is the moment he becomes aware of his arousal.

“ _Oswald_ ,” Ed breathes, almost beggingly into his ear. His digits shake as he grasps Oswald’s shirt, desperate to find an anchor point, something to solidify his connection to the world before he is washed away. _Oh, but I can’t_ , Ed realizes, cheeks burning. This is more intense than any fantasy or fleeting desire. It’s all-consuming, something he never wishes to part from. Struggling to voice his need, Ed mouths along Oswald’s collar, lips brushing the porous fabric and the pale smooth skin above it.

Oswald’s ministrations are innocently exploratory: they don’t dip or dive anywhere that would be unsavory in their current setting, but Ed’s body reacts in turn, heart thumping wildly, sending his blood coursing through him, resulting in a curl of his toes. “ _Please_ ,” Ed whimpers, lips coming to rest on Oswald’s pulsepoint, with shallow breaths separating them.

~~~

Kristen continues to stare at them, eyebrows pinched. _What is he doing?_ Whatever it is, she’s not going to let it continue and find out.

“Edward!” she admonishes him, grabbing him by the waist and pulling backwards. It solves nothing; she’s so much smaller than he is. “Stop! Not here!” she hisses, planting her feet and trying to drag him backwards by the belt. “Aren’t you going to help me?” she asks Zsasz, who is uselessly grinning and watching, beer in hand.

“It’s a _voyeur’s_ job to watch, not involve himself,” he says with a shrug and a shark-like grin.

Ed frowns at the commotion around him, longing for all the outside stimulus to fade away so he can continue to lose himself in Oswald’s arms. A nudge to his head sees him drawing back a fraction, eyes fluttering open. When they come into focus Ed gasps, breath held at the darkened nature of Oswald’s green orbs. Never before has he seen such a glance, least of all directed at _himself_. Their connection is held for a split second, Oswald staring inquisitively, before smiling out one corner of his mouth as he disconnects from their _hug_. Ed wants to complain, beg him to come back, but his words die on his tongue.

“ _Later_ ,” Oswald murmurs, smiling warmly, tracing a hand down Ed’s side. “Your friend wants your attention.”

“We’re leaving,” Kristen explains, hurried, grabbing Ed’s jacket, reaching up to put his glasses back on.

Ed stumbles back half a step, dodging her hands, and takes charge of doing it himself, sliding his frames and jacket into place. It was too much too quickly, Ed wasn’t ready for such fast-paced movements, not when he is still struggling to connect with himself. He couldn’t prepare, intercept. Kristen knows how he is, she understands.

“All the better,” Oswald says, voice ringing like a set of chimes. He’s having a surprisingly easy time faking his way through this interaction; likely because his mind is lost in the haze of having held Edward in his arms, the way Edward _draped_ himself across Oswald, hanging onto him, _begging_ just to be held. It’s more than that—it was husky desperation of how he spoke—if Oswald didn’t know how _interested_ Ed was by every other indicator, then the weight of Edward’s clear arousal pushing into Oswald, the sensation novel and _incredible_ , was enough. God, how he hoped no one had heard him moan Ed’s name when he felt it—no one other than Ed, who he _wanted_ to have heard it.

“We can continue—” Continue _what?_ If he let go of his inhibitions, he’d have whisked Ed off into a corner by now, to find out what came after that _please_ he sobbed so sweetly in Oswald’s ear. “In private, Ed,” he finishes, whispering, reaching for his hand, grabbing his cane with the other. He kisses Ed’s arm over his coat, both hoping he felt and _didn’t_ feel it, as he loops their fingers together, the motion a million times easier than Oswald would have guessed he’d find it. Now that he’s gotten Ed back, he doesn’t want to stop touching him, to let him go, possessive thoughts guiding his actions.

Dropping his head with a smile, Ed peers down at his hand and wiggles his fingers, double-checking his perception of reality. Oswald is holding his hand! It’s real. Their palms are pressed as flush as their bodies were only moments ago. It’s not a hug, yet Ed still fills with warmth at this new level of affection. Curling his digits, he strokes Oswald’s knuckles, heart fluttering.

“Eddie, snap out of it. We’re going,” Kristen demands with a dictatorial tone, ducking her head to catch his eyes.

“Going? I don’t—”

“Home. Now.”

 _But…but…_ Ed’s mind skips tracks like an old warped record. He’s not ready to leave, as that would see his night with Oswald come to an end. The mere thought is so tragic and devastating, Ed wonders if he could get away with drawing Oswald into the crowd and hiding from her sights.

“Yeah, Red invited me around to play poker,” Zsasz interjects, insinuating himself directly beside Kristen, throwing an arm across her shoulders. Kristen balks, brows drawn together, with a little wrinkle forming between and worms herself away.

“What? No I—that wasn’t for tonight!”

Ed can’t keep up. He wants to shout at everyone to be quiet so he can sort his way through his mind. There’s too much information incoming, and the alcohol, which increased his confidence earlier, now acts to his own detriment. He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw, counting down from twenty, keeping time with his heartbeat, forcing himself and his _entire_ body to calm. He repeats the action three times before snapping his head up and jumping forward, interrupting Kristen and Zsasz’s conversation.

“Kristen… _Kristen_ , does that mean Oswald can come too?” he asks, tapping her on the shoulder, striking four times. “You’ll come back to Kristen’s place, won’t you?” he says, turning to the man holding his hand. “Please?”

“Kristen? Your name’s Kristen?”

Ed is instantly sick to his stomach at the realization of the monumental mistake he made, so sick that he struggles to perceive who it was that asked the question. He’s never slipped up before, not under any circumstance, and here he is tossing her name around like worthless pennies. Where did his fastidious care go? How did he become so negligent? A few drinks shouldn’t have caused this. Ed winces and shoves his fingers into his eyes, pressing firmly, as if the action could erase the past few moments.

“I didn’t—I’m sorry.” His words collect in his palm and his breath bounces back to brush his lips. If it wasn’t for the hold Oswald has on his hand, Ed would have retreated to somewhere quieter, a solitudinous empty space where mishaps could not occur and if they did there would be no one to overhear them.

“Ed, Eddie…shh, it’s alright.” Kristen’s hand settles on his arm and within seconds, Ed drops his own and curls around her shoulders, hugging her close.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, voice obstructed by the fabric of her shirt. “I should have—but I—”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” she says soothingly, sharing a level of affection that is usually kept out of the public’s eye. “But we _really_ must be going…you can bring Oswald, too, okay?”

Ed nods and takes a deep breath. He tightens his arm a fraction in silent thanks, then disentangles himself, keeping his head bowed until they all worm their way outside, into the cool air. Already Ed feels better, removed from the overwhelming heat and body-rattling beats. Shuffling on his feet, he steps in front of Oswald, wanting to check in with him before they continue, as he never answered Ed’s earlier question.

“Are you—if you want to go home, you can…not that I want you to, but if you did…” Ed rambles, nearly managing to confuse himself. Exhaling a sharp breath of mirthless laughter, Ed brushes the backs of his fingers over Oswald’s cheek and tightens their clasped hands. “Is this what you want to do…come back to Kristen’s?”

“We’re gonna play poker,” Zsasz interjects, sticking his face right in front of Oswald’s, who puffs his shoulders up in response.

“You know I don’t like it,” Oswald answers Zsasz back, gruff and annoyed.

“Oswald—” Ed clamors for attention, pawing at his elbow.

“You don’t have to play, either of you,” Kristen calls back, leading their odd little pack down the street. “Not that you aren’t welcome to, just know that Zsasz and I have a pre-standing challenge to sort.” She says this lightly, with a toss of her hair, Zsasz laughing uproariously in response.

“I’ll pass, then,” Oswald doesn’t even have a chance to form his next sentence before Ed crowds him, looking devastated, still clutching onto him wherever his hand falls. Gripping their joined hands tighter, Oswald rubs his thumb across the back of Ed’s hand reassuringly, affectionately. “The game, I meant. The company I have no objections to, but Ed, actually, I—I wanted to—”

“What is it, Oswald?” Ed asks, mouth agape and eyebrows tipped.

“I’ll accompany you to your friend’s place, so long as I don’t have to be involved in their nonsensical _match_ , but I wanted to ask if we could—if we could speak in private? If it doesn’t interrupt your plans, I don’t want to prevent you from…whatever your plans are.”

“I don’t—we can talk.” They _do_ have things to discuss, Ed remembers with slight trepidation. Oswald has broached the topic a few times today, that the very mention ignites his nerves, tensing his stomach. There’s something significant there he’s unable to grasp. _Answers will come,_ Ed reminds himself, _they always do._ Nodding more than necessary, Ed smiles, tight lipped. “I’d like that,” he says, a matter of factly. Spending time alone with Oswald is the best turnout he _didn’t_ foresee. Although their time in the club was enjoyable, there were distractions all around. Soon they will be in private, only the two of them. Whatever discussions are to take place, Ed takes comfort in the fact that Oswald will be beside him.

“Are you two going to stand there all night?”

Ed spins around, tripping over his feet, managing only to stay upright thanks to Oswald’s well-timed assistance. Whispering his thanks, he gazes up the road, Kristen and Zsasz have almost reached the turn of the first block and show no signs of waiting.

“We should…”

Oswald nods, fingers tightening and leads them on their way. The taps of his cane are the only sounds passed between them. Ed wants to ask what he is thinking, what he wants to speak about, but there’ll be time for that later. By the time they make it to Kristen’s apartment, Ed has counted four hundred and thirty-seven taps…or was it four hundred and thirty-nine? He can’t be certain, but the action did allow him to focus on something other than the feeling of Oswald’s palm flushed against his own.

Kristen unlocks the door and immediately seeks out her deck of cards, whereas Zsasz helps himself to her cupboard. _Snoop._ Ed scrunches up his nose and shuffles on his feet. _Private…Oswald wants to speak in private. Where can we—the fire escape!_ The night’s air has already done wonders in quelling Ed’s high levels of intoxication…perhaps it will also allow him to keep a clear head through the coming talk.

“Come on.” Ed guides Oswald through the living room to the window, dodging the chatter thrown about. Neither of them want to engage in it, Ed’s not even certain _what_ Kristen and Zsasz are discussing…it could be pasta toppings for all he knows. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asks Oswald, reluctantly releasing his hand to slide open the glass pailing. “There’s not many other private places here…I mean, there’s Kristen’s bedroom but that’s her space a-and the bathroom— _no_ …” Bathrooms mean mirrors. Ed’s internal monster may be gone for now, but he doesn’t want to risk bringing him back. It’s safer to stay away.

Climbing through the window head first, Ed offers his hand to assist Oswald, cursing himself for not accommodating Oswald’s knee. _I can fix that._

“Please, wait here a second. I—I’ll be right back.” After making sure Oswald is steady Ed reenters Kristen’s apartment and snatches up the couch cushions and a large throw rug, resolved to do this all in one trip.

“Eddie, what are you—oh, nevermind. Carry on.”

Ed nods his thanks at her and tosses his cradled items onto the fire escape, quickly following through after them before he closes the window and begins arranging the cushions and blanket. When he is ready, he turns his attention back to Oswald, who is staring at him inquisitively and Ed blushes in response.

“It’ll be more comfortable…your knee,” Ed says in way of explanation and Oswald frowns. It’s wiped clean seconds later as he smiles and he takes his place with minimal hassle. Ed drops down as soon as he is settled and draws the blanket over his legs. It may be cool, sitting outside in the night’s air, but Ed’s face is burning. Biting his lip, he sucks in a greedy breath and flicks his eyes across a quieting city. His night has been perfect, and yet it continues!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think of the Princess? Also, the boys' relationship is progressing nicely. Do you have any thoughts on what their upcoming chat will be about? We'd love to hear your theories.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading <3 
> 
> Additional note, I (Lee) originally wrote Ed and Oz's hug scene as a oneshot for fun...and it continues on to be much more than a hug ;) If you want to read it in its entirety, then here you go: [Eight Days](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11975997)


	9. A Canvas of Calamity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Oswald divulge tales from their past in an effort to understand each other better. Emotional intimacy grows as does the physical aspect with a first kiss finally being shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, we posted a chapter two days ago but we couldn't keep this one to ourselves any longer.
> 
> As always, the tags are updated every chapter. Forewarning, there is talk about canon-typical violence in this, and aspects of Ed's childhood are detailed too.
> 
> Happy reading!

Despite the frigid air lapping at the skin on his neck, Ed feels warm. It could be artificial, he surmises, as he takes note of the traces of alcohol running through his system, and yet he knows it’s deeper than that. Pulling the blankets up his chest, bundling one end in his hand, he hugs it close and savors the moment of solitude. The events occurring inside the apartment are of little concern to him: he can hear the subtle sounds of shuffling and chatter but he tunes it out. There are more important things in the world than a mere card game. Beside him, Oswald sits equally as silent and at that, Ed smiles. _He’s still here._ This is where the feeling of warmth comes from. It’s not a metabolic reaction, a result of his intoxication—it’s Oswald.

Resting the back of his head against the concrete wall, he lazily tilts it in Oswald’s direction and blinks behind his lenses. He watches the low lighting play off Oswald’s features, how it dances alongside the shadows, entwining gradients. Perhaps two combative forces _can_ combine. Lines are not always so clear-cut.

“Thank you,” Ed whispers earnestly, heart tugging with emotion. The words barely reach his ears, but they are free.

“For what?” Oswald asks, holding onto the last vestiges of drunkenness left in his system. Edward’s soft whisper pulls him back into reality, away from the haze of blurry lights diminishing as the night winds down. Oswald let his eyes go unfocused as Gotham changes shifts, from evening partying to the city’s approximation of quiet downtime.

“Ed? Thank you for what?” Oswald repeats himself when Ed doesn’t answer. Turning to look at him, he sees the bottom half of Ed’s face buried in his blanket, balled up against his mouth. The softest blush highlights Ed’s cheeks and Oswald’s heart trips over itself, arrested with how soft and almost luminous Edward looks in the gentle, dissipating light surrounding him.

“Fo—” Ed’s voice is muffled, withholding things he wants to spill in endless, overlapping rambles. Biting his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth, he breathes into his knuckles, then lowers the blanket to tuck it under his chin. Oswald stares at him and more than anything, Ed wants to reach out and hold him again. They may be pressed close together atop the couch cushions but they aren’t connected. Not like they were before.

“Thank you for being here,” he croaks, stomach twisting with nerves. Being open with Oswald has never been an easy task; more often than not Ed has had to take heed of his utterances, to pay careful attention to what he is trying to convey in order to avoid conflict and strife. Tonight’s been different—Oswald let him blabber, let Ed be himself. There were no restrictions in place. “Thank you for coming out and for staying. I—I _know_ I’ve been difficult to deal with, I don’t… _understand_ people very well and that makes everything challenging, but you’re still here _with me_.”

Removing himself from the protection of the thin blanket, Ed lets it fall to his lap, hands settling atop. His eyes never stray from Oswald’s face—they’ve been there all night, _bar that small time Kristen pulled him away,_ mapping every curve and crevice. There’s beauty there, even beneath the layers of foundation and smudged eyeliner; Ed has seen it. Freckles, a miniscule scar on the cut of Oswald’s jaw, the small tired lines that mark his face with stories Ed knows not. There is so much to take note of and before tonight Ed would have said the only thing that never changes are Oswald’s eyes, but even those have transformed. They sparkle, their once dull appearance eradicated. Oswald is filled with life again and for Ed, that’s invigorating.

Choking on what to say in response, Oswald gapes around a false-start of a sentence and snaps his mouth closed. Edward is staring at him so intently that he can’t help but waver under the scrutiny. He looks away, back to the street and the lights down the road across from them, still attempting to reply.

Turning halfway, Oswald stares at the edge of Ed’s face—his parted lips, the curve of his jaw—unable to meet that focused gaze just yet. Oswald drops his eyes to Ed’s folded hands and reaches forward to stroke the back of the hand closest to him, patting it in expression of his reassurance of Ed’s confession, sliding his fingers in between Ed’s, hoping it serves as answer enough to what he’s said.

If only they didn’t have to talk—if only there wasn’t so _much_ unsaid, so much that must be said, if only every moment between them wasn’t balancing on a knife’s edge—and oh, how Oswald _doesn’t_ want to think about knives, tries not to look at the long column of Ed’s pale neck if he can help it, scared of the way his very core seems to both sink and _burn_ at the same time at the sight of it. Oswald’s mind drifts to the compulsion to pull Ed into a kiss, and no longer have to communicate, no longer have to _think_ , but life has never been that simple, and Oswald knows eventually, he must speak.

“Ed—I—” Oswald steels himself, blinks back the water in his eyes. “The day we were to meet at the coffee shop, I had something I wanted to…ask you, really. And I don’t…” Swallowing, he tries again. “Despite all the conflict, it’s been an _honor_ to see your commitment, for you to return to me for guidance, against all the challenges, and you—” he tries to aim for succinctness, clenching his eyes shut for one sharp second, forcing himself forward. “I don’t want to be your mentor anymore, Ed.” He holds Ed’s hand tighter, for Oswald predicts and fears he might run. “ _Don’t_ ,” he warns against however Ed might react, “Please, listen to me first. I want us to be equals, Ed. If you…especially after tonight, I’d…I’d like to be your _friend_.”

Ed's shoulders seize and his mind blanks. For a split second all thoughts lie dormant before they kick into overdrive. _Oswald wants to end this?_ The only reason he has been doing so well lately is because of Oswald, knowing that he is there should he fall. _What happens if I slip up and my safety net is nowhere to be found. I can’t do this alone._ “I don’t…I don’t—” He tries to speak, to relay his fears but his words are stripped from him, replaced with quick, uneven breaths which slip through clenched teeth. _I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want_ him _to return. I don’t want to fail._ With prickling eyes, Ed slams his eyelids closed and smashes the back of his head into the wall, doing anything he can to disrupt his rising panic.

“Please don’t leave,” Ed exhales in one breath when Oswald shifts beside him. Strengthening his hold on their joined hands, Ed attempts to steer all his attention to their connection, away from the tightness in his chest. “I don’t want you to go. You’re too important to me. I don’t want to lose you.” He rambles, but he is unsure if he is getting his point across, and he’s too afraid to meet Oswald’s gaze to discover it for himself. Instead he brings their hands to his chest, directly over his erratic heart and continues. “F-friends and I…we—we don’t mix. People get to know me and they flee or toss me aside. I’ve only got Kristen a-and _well…_ maybeone other, but even then I’m not sure. I question _everything_ all the time.”

Taking a deep breath, followed by two more, Ed cracks open his eyes and turns to look at Oswald. “I don’t want to question _us_.” He lets the silence fall over them for a split second, hoping it would speak for him, but he already has enough troubles communicating. He can’t leave his thoughts ruminating in his mind. Not this time. Not if he wants to keep Oswald in his life.

“Do you—don’t get me wrong, I would _love_ to be friends with you, but…” Ed pauses to lick his lips, struggling with endless threads of dialogue shifting through his mind. Tugging on the strongest line, he prevails. “I don’t know you, not like you know me. You—you never open up or share details about yourself. Everything I’ve discovered has come from observing you and… _some_ of that wasn’t done in an innocent manner.” Ed ducks his head in shame. He hates how he’s treated Oswald—every decision he believed to be the right one, the easiest and most profitable, was wrong and _rightfully_ discouraged. “I’m not sure we can ever be equals.”

“But we’re the _same_ ,” Oswald retorts, his voice wet and sad. “I don’t understand.” Sobering up quickly from nerves, now drunk on the sorrow that Ed’s words bring him, Oswald wraps his other hand around the fist Ed has made of their joined hands. He has to pull Ed towards him in order to be able to hold him; with their arms pressed against each other, their bodies connect in a line from elbow to ribcage to hip to knee.

Is Ed’s self-esteem this low, or was Oswald only even a means to an end? The delusion of them sharing something grander, something more _intimate_ , starts to wither in Oswald’s mind like a dead flower. “ _Damn_ Gordon for taking this from me!” Oswald curses. Ed’s eyebrows quirk in confusion. “Never mind,” Oswald shakes his head. _Remember: Ed’s never been simple. That’s why he’s made it this far. I would have gotten bored with anyone else. I understand that now._

“What you fear has already occurred—I _have_ tossed you aside, and it still haunts me that I turned, and over _nothing_. And I’ve tried to flee, and…” Oswald chokes up again; his own mangled maze of scars on his leg, and all the others littered across his body from his past are tolerable because they’re _his_ , and he can ignore them the same way he ignores all pain. But—

“You’re cursed wearing the mark of my initial rejection for life.” He would reach out and touch it—has longed to, as if his touch could erase it, _undo_ it, heal it….

Easing back from the force of how he’s clung to Ed, Oswald thinks for a moment before resuming his case. “I don’t share things with you because…” _Because I hate myself and I don’t want to confess my sins_ , is the honest truth, but he doesn’t speak it. Instead, he admits, “I tread on eggshells with you at times; simultaneously, when haven’t I bludgeon _new_ damage into your life every time we interact? To divulge myself is to add burden.” Dropping his head to Ed’s shoulder, he rubs his thumb along Ed’s: the motion makes the still-buzzing part of his mind flush; this simulacrum of romantic intimacy so raw and intense in this context.

“I won’t leave you,” Oswald promises, and the promise sends a shiver up his back for which he cannot account. “I _want_ to share things with you. For you to finally learn who I truly am.”

“Then tell me about yourself, please, for it’s everything I long to hear.” Ed rests his head atop Oswald’s and with his free hand, he strokes along his jaw. Since the moment they were torn apart in the club, Ed has wanted nothing more than to be close to him again, to hold him and be held in return. To _never_ let go. He feels safer around Oswald, and not in the way which garners him control—one look at their evening details with all clarity that he obviously has none. If he has to label it, he surmises it’s _comfort_ , comfort to be himself with a man who knows him.

“Oswald, I—” Ed chokes on his words, mouth opening and closing in an unformulated pattern. _I don’t want to be just friends, I want to be more than that; for me to be yours and you to be mine._ “You don’t—” _know how much you mean to me._ “I wish—I want—” Ed stutters through half a dozen more sentence-starters, each differentiating. All lines lead in the same direction, _love_ , but Ed is not the master of his own tongue and soon enough, Oswald is lifting his head, staring at him in confusion. Coughing out a nervous laugh, Ed’s mouth quirks into a smile, lips pressing and pulling. Having Oswald’s eyes on him makes things more difficult than before. The added pressure is not something easily waded through.

“I—I can’t concentrate with you staring at me,” Ed blurts, hand shaking in the air beside his ear, “You make my head all fuzzy.” Oswald’s eyebrows meet and he makes moves to divert his gaze but Ed swiftly puts an end to that by cupping his jaw. “That doesn’t mean I want you to look away.” Playing with the small strands on the nape of Oswald’s neck, thrumming them like a stringed instrument, Ed wills away the heat rising to his cheeks.

“I want to know what events made you who you are today, what sends you into laughter or tears, what your dreams and interests are… _and_ your fears. I want to know _you,_ Oswald _._ Your burdens—don’t worry what they may do to me,” he says, pulling Oswald in close once more, eyes holding their connection as strongly as their clasped hands. “I’ve piled you up with so many of my own and yet for some reason you’re still here. You’ve accepted me for all that I am and I know that’s not pretty—how could it be after everything I’ve done. I’m a—” _monster_ “—I’m not going to go there right now…”

Although he’s no longer a slave to his intoxication, his tongue is loose. Thoughts that are often kept internal, _for good reason_ , reach his ears not too soon after his mind forms them. They don’t hold the disastrous weight they once could have: tonight has changed things.

“What I’m trying to say, Oswald, is that you cannot scare me away. I highly doubt you ever could.”

Pulling Ed deeper into their embrace, Oswald sinks into the enjoyment of them sharing another hug. This one feels different than all the others, however—this one feels comforting, as if something has finally been made _whole_. “Now it is my turn to be the one with thanks to give.” He caresses Ed’s back, letting his eye drift shut, lost in the sensation of another tender moment between them occurring so naturally.

“You might not believe you see us as equals,” Oswald continues, pulling back enough to recline and fix his sights _away_ from Ed’s inviting face, “but your words reveal that you are starting to—your actions, even more so.”

Turning to face an empty distance, Oswald considers how to begin his own story. “I didn’t read your file for the longest time, because I was afraid to face what it may contain,” he plucks at a loose thread on the blanket. Ed reaches out to stroke his face again and Oswald gently grabs him by the wrist and lowers his hand. “And I can’t concentrate when _you’re_ —” Oswald waves a hand, unable to explain Ed. It’s as if Ed’s been trying to map Oswald with his fingers all night, and while he’s more aware than ever that he _enjoys_ the feeling of Ed’s hands on him, he also is desperately aware that _because_ he enjoys it, he needs _not to_ right now. “Here,” Oswald brings their free hands together again, giving a reassuring squeeze, before tracing the backs of Ed’s fingers with his own.

“Anyway, your rap sheet, while more _thematic_ than mine, is nowhere near as extreme. Not in the least.” Ed had committed a handful of murders, a few thefts, and caused one explosion. “I was in the mob,” Oswald confesses.

Ed looks shocked.

“And I’m a murderer, too,” he divulges, voice soft, feeling distant even from the admission. “There was no goal to it. It wasn’t to prove anything. I did it because I could. It was often the simplest solution to whatever difficulty I was facing—and I rarely consider other options.” Ed’s sharp intake of breath makes Oswald waver. “That’s not accounting for my other sins, all of which I belong in Blackgate for. If it wasn’t for Fish—”

“I was right,” Ed marvels, interrupting Oswald with thoughts he cannot silence. “I thought we were the same, _and I was right!_ It wasn’t just the loneliness….”

From the moment Ed first laid eyes on Oswald, he believed that there was a reason they met, one that stretched beyond an obstacle between himself and his file, and a self-constructed set of circumstances. _Fate_. Fate knew they were intended to meet, for why would someone like Oswald, someone who has made it through the atrocities of his past, ever engage with him otherwise? Bursting into a relieved bout of laughter, Ed’s eyes water as he rests the back of his head against the wall, peering up into the dark sky. “There’s hope for me yet. I— _we_ , we can live a life away from crime?”

Catching the fluttering of Oswald’s eyelashes, Ed squeezes his hands in silent apology. “I didn’t—continue, _please_. Fish…she helped you avoid Blackgate?”

Oswald clears his throat, suddenly scratchy, unfortunate representation of his inability to choke back his words anymore, not in this moment, not with Ed so eager to listen, so _trustable_. He’s never told anyone the story about how Fish pulled him from the mob’s clutches, and he tries to delay detailing it.

Considering Ed’s joy over their shared similarities, Oswald can’t help but laugh once himself, a barely audible sound. Of course Ed finds it a positive thing. “I knew from the moment you said you…” _Said you were a monster._ Oswald lowers his eyes and taps his own neck. “When _this_ happened,” he says, instead of clarifying. That was the moment I realized we were the same.” Pausing, Oswald plays that morning back in his mind, sorting through the reflections he’s made on the incident since it happened. “When did you know?” he asks, tone gentle, question authentic. Oswald pushes his fingers into his sternum. “You’ve been so devoted to the idea that only _I_ could save you.” His voice grows even softer. “How could you be so sure of something like that?” _How can you be so sure of anything in life that way?_

“We’re the same,” Ed says in explanation, lacking a better way to define the situation, unsure if doing so would bring him Oswald’s ire yet again. Every action he committed in the past, his _observations_ of Oswald, the way he once conducted himself, was _wrong._ Ed knows that now, but it took him a small bout of hardship to learn as he has never had that issue before. With Fox he could call in unannounced any time he chose, with Kristen…they actively insinuate themselves in each others lives whenever they care to do so, but with Oswald, as per usual, things were turned on its head. A new list of rules and social constructions were hissed and demanded, leaving Ed to scramble for pieces he has never touched.

“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” Ed tightens his grip on Oswald’s hand and exhales sharply, “you weren’t what I intended to find in the file room. I knew there would be someone there, but I—from the very first moment I saw you, before the attack and the coffee shop….” Closing his eyes, Ed rests the back of his head on the wall behind him and recalls the memory, one he has turned over in his mind countless times. “Oswald,” he whispers, “you sat there amongst your files in a wash of soft lighting amidst darkened corners—you didn’t move, you didn’t speak. A telephone rang and it passed by unnoticed whilst you stared blankly through your desk. _That_ was the moment a glaringly obvious fact hit me in the face, whiting out the reason for my visit.”

Shifting his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Ed breaths into his palm. Confession is supposed to be good for the soul; that is what one of Ed’s foster families told him, so why did that leave him feeling like his life was hanging in the balance? “This,” he says, dropping his fingers to the protruding scar on his throat, “I don’t want you to think badly for it, I don’t attribute it to anything negative, nor should you. I was so lost, so without direction—I…I’m _not_ —I’ve done bad things, many of which I doubt made my file, but you have filled me with hope.”

Finally cracking his eyes open, Ed reaches for Oswald’s cheek again, only to drop his hand at the very last second, catching only the slightest sensation of warmth. Offering him a small smile, Ed sighs. “The man sitting in his file room, lacking purpose and a will for life—I would like to think I’ve given him something too, something that serves to even out even a miniscule amount of the imbalance between us.” 

So caught off-guard by the gentleness of Ed’s admissions, Oswald smiles, bashfully waving away the idea with a hand, eyelashes fluttering as he rubs the back of Ed’s hand with his thumb again. “Why did you come to the file room? Were you going to steal your own file?”

Ed smacks his mouth in response, not even getting a syllable out in response before giving up.

Oswald’s face slides into a grin before he can help himself. “That’s something I would’ve done. Even tried to, the…the second time I broke out of lockup? Maybe it was the third.”

Ed’s eyebrows twist and he turns his head to the side.

“Oh, I broke out a handful of times,” Oswald tacks the detail on; it’s nothing compared to the rest of the story. “After Fish hauled me in, I was…less than cooperative, and since one of my first acts in the GCPD was to kick her partner—Zsasz himself—in the stomach and then spit in Fish’s face when she interfered, I never made it further than the lobby before I was thrown in a cell. She kept me in there for over a week, well… _tried_ to.”

Ed purses his lips and looks at Oswald, his rapt attention glistening in his warm eyes. Oswald forces himself to look away, so he can finish his story. He wants to hear Ed talk more, since this is the most clear conversation the two of them have ever had, but Ed seems to be in a mode where he is only interested in listening, so, Oswald plans to oblige him.

“I wasn’t like you, Ed. I didn’t want to be saved.” Pulling the blanket up around his shoulders, Oswald sinks into the warmth of it, drawing his knees up a bit and leaning on Ed’s arm for support. His leg isn’t hurting too much today, compared to most—he wonders if that was due to having been drunk, or to the comfort of the current situation. It’s presumably the latter, since Oswald’s already sobering up. Falling into patterns with Ed he never expected them to share is strange, but it feels so natural and soothing, Oswald decides against arguing it right now.

“My goal was to someday run Gotham’s underworld. Maybe a strong ambition for someone to have devised in his early twenties, but I didn’t share my plans with anyone, so it’s not as if I was receiving positive or negative feedback.” The only person who knew what world he was getting wrapped up in was Victor Fries, but since he moved away right after completing high school (Oswald had dropped out as soon as he could and never tried to go back and finish) there was no one for Oswald to share his plans with, even had he wanted to.

“You’re not interested in the mafia—not professionally, I can tell. Neither you nor your partner are part of that world. It’s different now that it was in my time. When I was just getting started, the Wayne family’s enterprise was already dissolving. They weren’t the mob—they were bigger than it, than the whole game.” He wonders how much of this Ed is going to be able to follow, and when he tilts his head back to check on Ed, the man’s face displays how absorbed he is in Oswald’s every word. There’s both comfort to be found in the honest reception Oswald is facing, and a delight that Ed’s hyper-focus on him seems to know no bounds—something that thrills Oswald’s ego. He smiles at Ed before dropping his chin again and continuing his tale.

“I can see where all the pieces will turn in any given scenario,” Oswald explains, gesturing with his free hand, his other still tightly entwined in Ed’s. “I’ve always had a gift for it, to see what is coming before it arrives. It…it doesn’t always work when it involves matters of a personal nature, but if I analyze something outside myself, I can observe and deduce where the evolving patterns are headed. I knew the Waynes were setting themselves up for failure long before they did, and by the time their reign collapsed, and their shadow puppet manipulation of Gotham ended when their scrim burned to ashes, my moves were already in place and I was prepared to seize my chance to become King.”

“The crime families had become lazy and complacent, accepting the lower position the Waynes had given them in the machine they’d turned Gotham into. It was the perfect set of circumstances for someone to come in and…rearrange some gears. Remove others.” Oswald’s voice starts to swell with pride and he grins, remembering how _alive_ he’d felt during that time in his life. Ed was right—the tradeoff for the security and _decency_ Oswald felt as a human being now, as a respectable-enough member of mainstream society, was that he often felt directionless, as if life had no purpose. Maybe Ed was right, maybe Ed _himself_ was good enough direction…no, Oswald had to shrug off such thoughts. Ed might be enraptured with him, but he didn’t even see them as equals. There was nothing of substance there, nothing for Oswald to…confuse himself over. Ed wanted to hear his life story, and for what it was worth, it was more than enough.

“The Keans appear to run the city now, thanks to their _heir’s_ choice to become embroiled in the mob herself, throwing cash around, as if that’s what makes a Queen…” Oswald scoffs, shaking his head. While he might’ve been _deplorable_ , at least he wasn’t _embarrassing_. “Your friend isn’t going to get anything out of that woman, I can assure her that, if she bothers to ask.” Oswald knew Barbara, in passing. He knew how she operated, and she wasn’t going to be on top long. Whoever would fill the power vacuum after that was a guess beyond Oswald’s knowledge, since he’d chosen to stop studying crime with an intensity that made him constantly question whether or not he intended to make another switch and get back into it himself. It was why he had no idea who Ed’s “supervillain” persona was; Oswald opted to file the paperwork with an empty-headed automation, to punch the clock and do his menial job without thought or insight.

“Before that—when you were still tipping the GCPD off to your little _investigations’_ insights—yes, I know all about that, it’s _also_ in my files—there was the Temporary Trifecta, as I called them, and I had a presence in all three corners of it.” Counting off with his fingers, Oswald explains the power structure he’d covertly demolished in a short amount of time. “I held the reins of each faction for years, gathering hundreds of threads into my fists, and in less than a week, I’d yanked every player on stage to their feet, and tore down the scenery to go along with it.”

“First, I found an opening working for the lowest-ranking of the three—easiest place to insert myself into the scheme with the least amount of visibility. There’s a woman who acts as liaison for all the various underworld members. She runs a club as a front for her operations, a seedy little place with a loyal, if not repulsive customer base. Once full of grander aspirations for her career, I think my shake-up ended those plans for good!” Oswald laughs, a maniacal sound he doesn’t mean to let slip. “I ran odd jobs, worked as her assistant, even tended bar.” _It’s not all that different than what I do now…_ “All unglamorous work, and I kept with it for years. She used to call me _Penguin_ , because of my penchant for tuxedos…awful nickname, it spread outside the club and _stuck_. I hated it, but all-in-all, working for her wasn’t as abysmal as it could’ve been. It would have been hard to betray Leslie Thompkins in the end,” Oswald muses, before hurriedly adding, “I’m fortunate it never came to that, though I was prepared for it, had I succeeded.” Ed’s stiffened in the last few moments, and Oswald fears perhaps he’s bored him, so he moves on.

“Then, I introduced myself to Aubrey James, the most _worthless_ human being I have ever had the displeasure of knowing. He ran the south quarter and part of the docks, loved cigars and pastries, and he was, quite literally, illiterate. I had to read him the menu at restaurants…” Oswald’s head sags back and he groans at the sheer memory of how unpleasant even having to be in Aubrey’s _presence_ had been. “Killing him was no burden, let me tell you that! I desecrated his entire _life_ , killed everyone of his allies without a second thought. So sociopathic of me,” Oswald says forlornly, closing his eyes as he is faced with the ever-constant reminder of what kind of man he used to be.

“Lastly, in my triple-agent spying, I reported on all that I witnessed to Sarah Essen, who was immediately de facto leader of the underworld after the first shake-up, and rightfully so. While still a crime boss, she had ethics. A code. Her partners were committed, tried to warn her that I wasn’t what I seemed.” Allen and Montoya were the closest thing the city had to any kind of watchmen, before the GCPD’s reformation. While they were on the opposite side of the law, they were skilled and wanted nothing more then to maintain the peace their _Donna_ had established. “I was hoping I could sway them to join my side, when my plans were complete. Essen was loyal to her allies, including Thompkins, and handled Aubrey with peace and grace. I planned my rule to be modeled after hers, and it was unfortunate that I was going to have to knock her down, the same as the rest of them, but I was prepared to—that was, until Fish intervened.”

Getting tired of talking so much, Oswald cracks his back and shoves his head further into Ed’s arm, growing slightly uncomfortable and tired, but determined to finish his tale. “Fish, on her own, and certainly with no thanks to the rest of the force at that time, except Zsasz, of course, had been studying the case of what had happened to Aubrey’s men, thinking it the work of a hitman or a resurgence of the Wayne’s various shadow groups. What they didn’t expect to discover was that it was _me_.”

Chewing on his lips for a moment, Oswald moves into the hardest part of the story for him to recite. “I saved killing Aubrey himself for last. I planned to take Thompkins, Essen, and him all out in the same evening, at a meeting I arranged for all three of them to show up to, for three different, fake reasons. What I got instead was a new trifecta—the barrels of Thompkins’s most prized assassin’s gun a mere foot from my face,” On the other side of Valerie Vale’s gun was _not_ a place anyone wanted to be, not with that bizarre, hospitable grin mocking you… 

“There was no escape—Essen’s bodyguard had her gun on my back, too.” In the end, Oswald valued not having to remember what Renee Montoya’s face must have looked like, when she was inches from killing him…

“And then there was Fish herself, descending on me with all the fury of a hurricane contained in every step as she advanced down on me. She shoved the barrel of her gun into my forehead, demanded that I stay silent, and told everyone else to back off. Aubrey was sulking behind her—he’d told her everything he knew of my betrayal, and he _clapped_ , gleefully encouraging Fish to shoot me there.

“I confessed to her that her assessment was right—I’d planned to murder Thompkins, Essen, and anyone else in my way, and then, for added effect, I did…what is probably the smartest thing I have ever done, in retrospect. I dropped to my knees, sobbing, hands up in defeat, and begged her for my life. I promised I would do anything she asked if she just spared my life—spy for her, lie for her, cheat and steal, even kill, if she required it. Anything to not have to die.” Oswald shakes his head and blinks. “Bad tactic to pull with Fish, to lie to her. She can always see right through it.”

Focusing on his breath for a pause, Oswald scratches his knee, driving his fingers into the spot where the pain always throbs the worst. “Fish told me that a lie with a heart of truth is a powerful thing, and that there was no such trace of validity in anything I said. So I switched tactics. I begged her to spare me because I hated what I was becoming, what I’d already done. I understood the path I was on was only going to lead to further misery and would result in me being consumed by the evil in my soul, where I would be lost to the dark forever. If she wasn’t willing to help me save myself, then she might as well shoot me where I was, because she’d be doing the public a service.” He swallows and closes his eyes. “I didn’t at the time understand that my heart was pleading for something _very_ real, and that I would be willing to do anything to have it, but in that moment, I felt I could trick her more effectively if I appealed to her sense of…” Oswald can’t think of one word to summarize it; to him, she is the savior of Gotham and one of its most despicable souls, and no single descriptor can do her—”Justice,” he blurts out. The word fits.

“She dragged me to my feet and bargained with Aubrey for my life. Said she’d deal with Essen herself, and that I was to be hers, now. Thompkins said she would walk away from it all if it meant she could avoid being further involved, and thus marked the end of my criminal career. I was escorted outside, told to start meeting with Fish to develop a plan for what came next, but I was to hang low until that time, as she had more business to carry out before then. So, I repaid her kindness by killing Aubrey that night in his own bed, ready to carry out the rest of my plan, without her interruption, by dawn. I was intercepted on my way to find Essen, cuffed and dragged to the GCPD, where I spent the next week on display in the cage, hissing every threat and insult in the book at Fish, and I broke out to fight her more times than I think anyone served me meals.”

Oswald drops his head to his chest, his voice low. “I couldn’t bring myself to kill her. I _wanted_ someone to stop me—me, the man I am now, who I had suppressed for so long, wanted a chance at life, wanted the _Penguin_ to stop destroying it for him. Fish saw that, and no matter how much abuse and resistance I threw her way, she fought me until she got through to me. Until she saved me. It’s taken all these years, it’s taken all my _strength_ , to become who and what I am now. Sometimes I feel divorced from life—your assessment was true. But I’m the living proof that what you seek is possible—to change yourself, if it’s what you truly desire. How you’ll achieve it, I can’t fathom—it’s not working coming under my direction, but Ed, I think there’s hope for you yet. Trust my words as truth, for I mean what I’ve said.”

Ed sits silently, working through every scrap of information Oswald divulged and what a mountain it is. To think that Oswald has experienced so much is _almost_ unfathomable, yet Ed believes every word. The way Kristen teased him earlier, dropping the moniker _Penguin_ , removes every shred of doubt within him. Oswald is…Ed lacks the terms to define him; to summarise his life in a single word is a feat even _he_ can not master. Even with his dictionary of a brain, Ed finds himself lacking. The state of unbridled awe that consumes him is not conductive in the slightest.

“I—” He tries to speak but his words die in his throat. How can he comment on something of this magnitude? What can he say that will even cut close to the emotions brewing inside of him? Without thought, Ed cups the side of Oswald’s head and draws him in till his lips meet his hairline, fulfilling a desire he has held all night. He lingers, breathing in the scent of Oswald’s pomade, fingers carding through small strands. “You—You’re…” Ed trails off with a barely audible whimper, nothing more than a tiny squeak in the back of his throat. Oswald Cobblepot: _Mobster_. Brutal and beautiful in all that he is, Ed can’t help but be further enthralled at the knowledge of this cunning and power man but _that_ is not the Oswald Ed—

“How didn’t I know about you sooner? I researched Gotham’s power structure and the people involved and neither your name nor the Penguin came up.” Ed surmises Fish may have had something to do with it. If she was so devoted to reconstructing Oswald’s life, she would remove every trace of his last one…at least that’s what Ed would do if he was in her position. Stroking a hand down Oswald’s cheek, Ed releases him from his hold, lips tingling in the aftermath.

Drawing further back, mind continuing to play catch up, Ed bursts into a fit of laughter—not at Oswald, of course, but at the universe and its interwoven lines of destiny and fate. He tucks his legs beneath him and rises to his knees, releasing Oswald’s hand in the process. Tears collect in the corners of his eyes, merriment, surprise, an amalgamation of emotions releasing themselves in the only outlet they can. “I have a _thousand_ questions,” he blurts, slapping his knees, bouncing slightly only to seize up at the look on Oswald’s face. _He—did I do something wrong?_ Oswald doesn’t share his joy, he smiles but it’s sad, he blinks but it’s delayed. Ed’s lips part before he finds himself darting forward to wrap his arms around him, burying his face in his chest. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” he says, voice muffled. “Of course this is difficult to talk about. There are things—if I had to—my childhood, not to mention….” A shudder rips down Ed’s spine, calmed only by the feeling of Oswald’s arms encircling him. Angling his head, he peers up at Oswald out the corner of one eye. _He looks somewhat calmer now._ Ed smiles.“I’m proud of you, of all that you have worked to achieve. You are an inspiration.” Reluctantly, Ed pulls away, cheeks aflame contrasting with the cool night’s air. He keeps his gaze downcast as he shuffles back into position, tugging the blanket over his legs.

“Oswald, can I ask you a question?” He asks in all seriousness whilst seeking out Oswald’s hand, needing that connection. He slots their fingers together, stomach fluttering when their palms flush against each other before raising his chin. Oswald nods, lips pressed together, one side of his mouth quirks in encouragement or acceptance. Ed struggles to discern it, _him_.

“Why is it you don’t want to be my mentor— _guide_ —however you define it? After all you have endured, you are perhaps the most _uniquely_ qualified person I could ever find. You understand my tribulations and guilt but, well…is it something I did? I’m attempting to piece this all together and I can’t. If you wish to remove yourself from your role, I won’t keep you trapped in it, but—I’m confused. You mention equals, equals in what? Although I am on the path to bettering myself, thanks to you—if you look at this hierarchically, I am still beneath you. I have yet to reform. I just—I want to understand.” Dropping his head to Oswald’s shoulder (which involves a slight repositioning), Ed stares into the darkened corners of the city. “Help me to make sense of this, _please._ ”

“I never _wanted_ to be your mentor,” Oswald replies, ironically bright and with a slight snicker. “You simply… _picked_ me, and I had little choice but to go along, not after I recognized all we shared in common, not after—not after I understood how ardently _real_ your plea for help was. Yet nothing changes how _stressful_ the role is.”

Ed shoves his head into Oswald’s arm harder, wriggling around in a discomfort Oswald assumes has more to do with Ed trying to stay silent, despite disliking what he’s hearing, than their awkward height difference makes sitting together. He’s rolled himself into a ball easily enough, knees almost against his chest, and it astounds Oswald how _small_ Ed makes himself, not only in size but in self-perception. His words betray a lack of self-esteem Oswald would find surprising of one of Gotham’s most egotistical villains, if he hadn’t already figured out some time ago how naturally deferential Ed was with him.

That may have been what made the _lines_ -incident as shocking as it was—for Ed to switch to trying to get a _rise_ out of Oswald, instead of pathetically nipping at Oswald’s heels on a daily basis. Both of them contained a great potential to be aggressive and controlling, and for Oswald’s unpleasant tenure as Ed’s mentor to come to an end with them almost helping _each other_ lapse back into their worst selves…

“I don’t want us to be _Penguin_ and _Riddler_ ,” Oswald rubs Ed’s arm with a hesitant hand, brushing from shoulder to elbow and back over his shirt; with each stroke he gains more confidence, until he’s gripping Ed’s arm while he speaks. “That day we were to meet in the cafe, I was going to ask you, if you could…if you could _forgive_ me for sending you away in such inappropriate _anger_ —oh, Ed, you don’t _know_ the full story, you don’t know how much I regretted that, but it proved to me I couldn’t handle what…it’s not…it wasn’t anything _you_ did, it was something _I_ did, I almost did…” Biting his lip, Oswald composes himself; he’s rambling and if he knows anything, it’s that if he is to be understood, it’s up to his wording, because Ed needs things to make precise, clear sense.

Ed makes a muffled sound—Oswald’s unsure if it’s words or simply noise, but it sounds so broken and anguished that the last of his resolve cracks and he drags Ed into his arms forcefully, stroking the back of Ed’s head, pressed into his chest, until Ed relaxes into the embrace. _This is the only way I know how to communicate this, Ed,_ Oswald thinks to himself as he coos soft, tender sounds into Ed’s hair, right over his ear, soothing him the way that comes most naturally to Oswald. He swallows down the rising feeling that Ed needs _protecting_ more than anything else; how confusing is their entire relationship for Oswald to be in this situation, roles completely reversed from Ed’s designed scenario so many weeks ago, where he planned on _repairing_ Oswald?

“I was going to ask you that day, when you agreed to meet with me, if you would…if you would do me the honor of allowing us to begin again, this time on equal footing, as the men we want to be. As friends, who _choose_ to be by each other’s side, mutually—as Oswald and Ed.” He hopes his words carry _some_ kind of meaning to Ed, but he never can be sure if Ed understands him the way he hopes to be understood—they get caught speaking at cross-purposes more often than anything else…Oswald wants, and _wants_ and _wants_ so much more from Ed, deep down he _craves_ to do something with the immense trust Ed places in him, to revel in the adoration Ed gives him, but the context of everything warring in Oswald would need to be settled first, and in the sense of who they are as _people_ , Oswald has no desire to see Ed _beneath_ him, _hierarchically_.

“Maybe now that you know my story, you can understand that it would be all too easy for me to reign over another human—I never want to resort to being the kind of man who _would_ , again. I was…before my injury, before I met you—and no, I’m not counting when I spilled your coffee, for you didn’t _know me_ yet—I was finally starting to become someone _kind_. As of late, I’ve lost my way, but I want to find it back. Perhaps you are the means—both path and map and destination. There’s…fate clearly interwove the strands of our lives for a reason—maybe we are meant to guide each other.”

“It’s your choice, Ed, but even you said it yourself—you know you’re affecting me, too, and well…I’ve found these kinds of relationships are more beneficial when both parties are active in the exchange of teaching and learning. Your request for my _guidance_ is something I will continue to provide, regardless. I’m not rejecting you again. I only hoped we might…” he clutches Ed’s shoulder, his other hand caught in the strands of Ed’s hair, so silken and soft under his fingers…he rests his cheek on the top of Ed’s head and closes his eyes. “It’s as if tonight you forgot all the difficulties that past between us, but I haven’t forgiven myself for them yet. Not without having spoken to you about it first.” He loosens his arms so Ed can sit up if he wants, but doesn’t drop his arms, not wanting to left go first.

Ed listens to the faint sounds of Oswald’s heart as he waits for him to speak again, not wanting to interrupt, but all Oswald does is hold him. _This is not where I predicted our night heading._ He peers down at the blanket, eyes catching the bulbous droplets on the innerside of his lenses, three tears; one of sorrow, one of acceptance and the other, _relief_. No one has taken the time to explain themselves like this to Ed before. People expect him to understand, to immediately _know_ who they are and what they mean because he is smart and although his educated assumptions more often than not lead to triumphs, it’s different with Oswald. _Why am I still so shocked by this?_

“I didn’t forget,” Ed says through a sniffle, preparing himself to explain why it is Oswald believes he holds their difficulties in such a shallow light. “I’ve never forgotten, but I’ve had no choice but to move on from them. They were… _necessary_ lessons, a set of circumstances that helped me to grow and change. I can’t—” Ed presses his face deeper into Oswald’s chest, his frames bite into his face, carving small indentations, but it’s not sharp enough to prompt release from his emotions.

“My life, it’s been one big _accept and adapt._ To hold on is to be trapped in the past and I can’t, n-not when I’ve worked so hard to overcome it.” Shuddering through his shallow breath, Ed scouranges for the strength to begin his tale. All of who he is stems from his tragic past, and despite the desire to disconnect from that, to pretend it doesn’t exist, he can’t. The ever-present scars on his body are a roadmap which detail his hardships. A canvas of calamity, splintered segments of his life, each holding a portion of who he is… _was_. He is different now, forced to become someone new… _. My demons rebirthed me._

Loosening his hold on Oswald’s waist, Ed reluctantly draws himself away. He needs to see him and wants to be seen in return. The hug is comforting. Ed could very well lie in his arms for days wanting for nothing else, but this isn’t the time. Capturing Oswald’s hand in his own, Ed renews their connection and presses his lips to the back of Oswald’s palm, holding stationary for a split second before dropping it to the blanket.

“I want to thank you, Oswald, for being more accommodating and obliging than I could have _ever_ imagined. After all you have been through, you accepted all my pleas and demands at the detriment to your own sanity and way of life. I—I’m sorry for shaking things up. I never intended to cause you any harm.” Oswald’s recollection of life events triggered Ed’s own. A gritty story topped with hardship and pain from the day of his birth, perhaps even earlier. His parents never shied away from hissing that he was unwanted, a mistake that only served to hold them back.

“There is so much compiled in my head that I often have trouble discerning what it is people do and do not know…but this, Oswald, this isn’t something I have shared with anyone. Not even Kristen.” He meager attempt at an introduction feels lacking, disconnected from what he was relaying only moments ago. Oswald gives him a reassuring smile and Ed attempts to mirror it, action proving difficult with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. _Please don’t think less of me because of this._ Tugging away a strip of skin from his lip, Ed refocuses on Oswald’s eyes.

“My file, the one I was planning on stealing the day I first saw you—it doesn’t contain all my crimes, of that I am certain, for it only holds information on Edward Nygma and not the man I used to be. I was born Edward _Nashton_ ,” he elucidates, prompted by the slight twitch in Oswald’s brow. “I—I changed my name in an endeavour to erase my past…but I didn’t forget, I can’t forget. It’s my curse.”

“Exactly fifteen years after I was removed from my childhood home—at the age of eight—I returned to murder my father.” Ed draws his knees to his chest and wraps his free arm around them. He is no longer able to hold Oswald’s gaze, not with the influx of memories bombarding him, wreaking havoc in his mind. Dropping his head, Ed stares through the streets of Gotham and recalls his mother’s sudden gushes of fury and vitriol and his father’s aberrant attacks. _What did I ever do to deserve that? I was your child. Where were your parental instincts? I—_ Oswald squeezes Ed’s hand, providing relief from his internal decimation, distorting the connection. _Thank you._ “My mother was filed away as a _missing_ _statistic_ but I knew better…I generally do. I didn’t care that she was dead, only that _he_ was still alive. H-he was my first kill, something I feel no regret or remorse for.”

Ed rubs his cheek against his shoulder, cleaning away the evidence of his tears. His earliest memories were ones filled with neglect: a child ignored, left to fend for himself. Before too long that wasn’t enough for his parents, for when a child grows hungry they cry and that was detested almost as much as his very existence. “They—my parent’s broke me, Oswald… _everyone_ did.” Ed stares down at the pink scars that crisscross his knuckles and blinks away his brewing thoughts, ones he refuses to corroborate with. Oswald didn’t break him, he only made him spiral. _I was fractured long before I met you._ _I doubt my seams will ever flush cleanly._

“He—my father,” Ed clarifies, hoping Oswald is able to follow his tale, “he wasn’t the worst of them all, or perhaps he was, as _he_ is where this… _I…_ began. My childhood was plagued with abuse: my parents, _several_ different foster parents, people that were supposed to _care_ _and support me…_.” His breath cuts sharply through the air, the residual anger of his predicament burns inside of him. _That_ was not the way a child should be treated, even Ed, with his minimal understanding of people, knows that. Children are to be nurtured, they’re not substitutes for punching bags. Ed growls through his next exhale. “I knew that if my father lived, one way or another the cycle of suffering would continue, so I was resolved to put an end to it. Accept, adapt, _act_.

“He didn’t understand of course, my parents were a pair of dimwitted fools. I neither know nor understand how they bore one such as me: a child with a universe of questions in his head, yet here I am. So when I broke into my childhood home, I threw them all back at him, each one landing a blow behind my attacks. Why me? Why was I unworthy of their love? What is—was— _is_ wrong with me? The course of events my parents put me on destroyed me, so I did the same to my father and in his death I recreated myself, forced my fractured pieces back together in an image he could never touch.”

Running a shaking hand over his face and through his hair, Ed shifts back into his previous position, leaning half against the wall, with the rest of his weight pressed into Oswald’s side. He tugs the blanket up to his chin and holds it to his lips.

“There’s something else,” he squeaks, not giving Oswald the chance to speak. The floodgates to his collection of memories and past experiences are open and Ed is struggling to hold everything back…not that he entirely wants to, but it would be the safe bet. His desire to share is strong, foolishly so, after all, Kristen reacted negatively to the news. Her dissuasion of Ed’s justified fears were— _are_ a major point of difference between them. Weeks later she is _still_ searching for answers when all Ed wants is someone to hold him and believe him. He is a monster, but he doesn’t want to be a paranoid one.

Ed grips Oswald’s hand firmly, heart rate increasing. His past was a nightmare, but it was something he understood. After several years of self-discovery and contemplation, he settled the conundrums of his childhood and pushed them to the side. They no longer held power over him, but in their wake, the empty space was filled with something more disastrous. A puzzle he didn’t hold the pieces too.

“I, _ah,_ I don’t—” The urge to bury himself in Oswald’s arms returns with a vengeance when tears prick his eyes. To hide from his problems would be easy, to pretend they didn’t exist, even for the smallest time, would be a relief, but he has already began. If Oswald wants to be on even grounds, he should know that Ed’s are unstable. Forcing the back of his head into the wall Ed brings his digits to his neck, digging his nails in around the scar on his throat. “It’s not who I am, it’s not who I want to be.” He can feel his pulse hammering the pads of his fingers, when the stomach clenches don’t take purchase of all his attention. “I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t want this new version of myself to be tainted….but it is a-and I can’t—” _Accept, adapt, and act_ failed him. _How can I act when I don’t hold all the pieces. How did I get there? What purpose did it have?_

“The 8th Street massacre…that—that was _me._ Six people, Oswald, _six_ people who likely didn’t deserve it. I didn’t even know…not till later.” Curling into a ball, he drops his head to Oswald’s shoulder and holds onto him tightly. The longer Oswald is quiet, the more anxious Ed feels. He hasn’t risked a look in his direction since the beginning of his tale and Oswald has scarcely even moved. _Is he shocked by what I have done?_ “I tried to find the answers—the file room, the day I first saw you. I wasn’t there only to fix up the _Chess Killer_ nonsense,” Ed says with a wet laugh, “I-It was to find answers, to pinpoint the _moment_ I lost my way. If I can forget that what else have I done? Who else have I hurt?” His tears fall to meet Oswald’s jacket at that same time a hand starts carding through his hair. It’s too tender, too gentle and _exactly_ what Ed needs. “I don’t want to be a monster, but life keeps telling me I am.”

“That massacre happened shortly before my mother died,” Oswald says, after a long pause. “She’d been in the hospital…her heart, you see.” He pulls his eyelids together tightly, holding back a tear. “A whole life, wasted on her petty crimes and never-ending failures, and then snuffed out, for no reason, not poetic or meaningful in the slightest—it was her fated time. I distanced myself from her after…after I turned away from my old life. We weren’t even close like we once were, yet there was still…”

“Tabitha—our forensics scientist, you met her—she came and took me out for pad thai after. Said, quite simply, I wasn’t allowed to miss our weekly lunch.” Oswald scoffs, smiling, despite the water pooling in his eyes. “Can’t remember when it started, but we share takeout once a week in her lab, usually in complete silence, which few people appreciate as we do. Her brother happened to be my mother’s doctor, so I wondered if he called her or…” Shaking his head, Oswald tries to pull himself back to the present moment, stroking Ed’s hair once more. “We sat on a bench in the park and she told me about what she’d spent her day doing, and I cried, because even those deaths were senseless, pointless, meaningless. No different that my mother’s. No different from the lives I’ve taken myself.”

Wrapping an arm around Ed’s waist, to help anchor _himself_ , Oswald clings to him. He’s never touched another human being as much as he’s touched and _been touched_ by Ed tonight. Each moment of it makes him feel more alive, more connected to life itself, than he could have ever conceived of.

“I didn’t know if it was possible for me to become human again, not after all I’ve suffered at the hands of others, not after all the carnage I’ve caused, and yet that moment, I wept for people I didn’t know. How I can be both sadistic and empathetic confounds me, but _Ed_ ,” He grabs Ed’s jaw and pulls his face up so their eyes can meet, “what your father did, I can only imagine how much he deserved your retribution.” Oswald breathes heavily, chest weighted with the force of conflicting emotions. Whispering, he says, “I’m proud of you for making him suffer—as proud I am that you sought out assistance when you realized you’d gone too far as of late.” With a swallow, Oswald manages to chokes out one more sentence—“No wonder you were so desperate. No wonder you’re so committed to this. I had no idea, _no_ idea.”

Ed brings his hand up to encircle Oswald’s wrist, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the jutting bone. “You don’t think… _badly_ of me?” His breath trembles, quaking almost as much as his entire body. That is what he is most frightened of…turning away, scaring off someone who encompasses his entire world. Oswald is everything to him, his opinion more meaningful and possibly detrimental than the combined forces of all the people in the city. There is so much more Ed wants to say but his mind is stuck on that one looping thought. “I don’t want you to think badly of me,” he whispers, staring up into Oswald’s equally wet eyes.

“To be truthful, for the longest time, I did,” Oswald admits, chuckling slightly, stroking his thumb across Ed’s cheekbone, wiping away his tears. “When you saved my life in that alleyway, it started to change.” He cups Ed’s face in his palm, repeating the same motion with his other thumb. “But now, with everything laid bare between us…no, now I don’t think badly of you _at all._ ”

His heart is thumping so strongly, he can feel the flush that hits his cheeks, the full tingling rush that runs through his limbs, down to the tips of his fingers. Ed’s mouth is parted, eyes wide and vulnerable, yet there’s something in the center of the depths of brown that is demanding, dragging Oswald in.

He’s never done this before—not like this. For someone who normally never feels any profound level of hesitation, Oswald finds himself faltering, _timid_. Having been the recipient twice now of the same kind of action by Ed, he shouldn’t overthink something he feels compelled to do so strongly.

Pulling Ed towards him, Oswald tips his head down and presses his lips against Ed’s forehead, pouring all he feels into the touch, running his fingers up into Ed’s hair, cradling Ed’s temples against his thumbs. Ed’s breath hitches and he twines his fingers into the pleats of Oswald’s shirt; Oswald can feel him trembling—it’s not as if Oswald isn’t shaking himself. _What am I doing,_ he wonders to himself as he kisses Ed’s temple, his nose, his cheek. _Why didn’t I do this sooner?_ is the only thought he has when he brushes the pad of his finger along Ed’s lower lip, before bending down closer, foreheads pressed together. _Oh, that’s right,_ Oswald recalls, moving away only to move closer into Ed, their lips about to connect. _I did always feel drawn to him._

“Well you two are having fun.”

Ed squeaks and buries his face in Oswald’s shoulder, attempting to quell the erratic thumping of his heart. It’s useless of course: Oswald set his entire body alight, engaged every nerve with his gentle caresses and…and _kisses?_ _Oswald was kissing me? Oswald was kissing me!_ There’s a hand in Ed’s hair, carding through slowly; fingers pressing, massaging…Ed can’t tell. All he knows that he doesn’t want it to stop. No, that’s not right. He wants more, so _much more._ He thinks about Oswald tilting his head back up and their gazes connecting, speaking words neither can in the moment, for it’s too profound. He imagines Oswald’s lips finally meeting his own; the way they feel, taste, and move in a transference of their breath and souls. Ed shifts on the cushion, ankles and legs rubbing together, hand tightening on Oswald’s shirt. _Why aren’t we doing that now?_

The talking overhead goes unnoticed to Ed until he detects a small grumble in Oswald’s chest. Blinking out of his haze he lifts his head, flushed cheeks contrasting the cool air. With a glance at Oswald’s pinched face, Ed flicks his head over his shoulder and scowls. “What do you—why are you naked? Oswald… _why_ is he naked?”

Zsasz laughs boisterously but Ed find no humour in the situation, only taking a smidge of comfort in the fact that the bald man has his underwear on. _What has he been doing? Where is Kristen?_ Ed wants to get up and go check on her, make sure she is safe…and clothed. Instead he opts for calling out, finding that his thirst for answers doesn’t quite outweigh his desire to stay in Oswald’s arms.

“Kristen?”

“Still dressed, Eddie! See.” A small shuffle at the window sees her words ring true. Clothes, jewelry, everything is intact.

“Then why is he—I don’t—”

“He lost at strip poker, clothes are the currency,” Kristen explains, but Ed struggles to keep up with recent events, almost entirely due to the way Oswald’s hand tightens around his waist. The action is noticed by Kristen, whose eyes narrow and flick to Ed’s own in question.

“You lost at _Go Fish_.” Ed frowns at Zsasz’s comment, mouth falling open. _They played ‘Go Fish’ and didn’t invite me? Kristen knows that’s a favorite._

“We didn’t even play!”

“And whose fault is that? I know _I_ wasn’t the one too busy thinking over how best to be bait for—”

Zsasz falls halfway out the window, cackling at the smack to his head while Kristen leaves in the other direction, muttering under her breath. Ignoring their childish antics, Ed turns his attention back to Oswald, crooking his finger, encouraging him to drop his head.

“How much have they had to drink?” Ed whispers, eyes falling closed as he rubs his cheek against Oswald’s, savouring the warmth leaching from his skin.

“I’m not certain, but I’m beginning to wish—”

“What do you wish, Oz?” Zsasz interjects before Oswald can finish his thought. “Your night has been _riddled_ with…well, him and from an outsider’s perspective I’d say you’re having a _pretty_ good night.”

Oswald tenses, Ed takes notice of the clenching in his jaw and way his breath cuts through the air in quickened pants which brush the skin of Ed’s neck. _Can everyone leave us alone! First it was Kristen dragging me away and now it’s Zsasz…this situation needs rectifying._

Lifting his chin, Ed shifts his head and draws Oswald’s attention off their intruder. The pair stare at each other, eyes flicking side to side before they share a small smile and a subtle nod. With his grin stretching further across his face, Ed scampers to his feet at the same time Oswald shoots out his hand, managing only to clip Zsasz’s cheekbone. Ever ready to follow through with their voiceless plan, Ed palms Zsasz in the face, shoves him back into the apartment and slams the window closed. He glares at him from the other side of the glass pailing, daring Zsasz to step forward and attempt to insinuate himself again. Thankfully, he has enough sense to literally throw his hands up in defeat and walk away. _Good riddance._

Oswald laughs when Ed turns to face him, proud smile on his face, his mouth like a slightly curving line, lips pressed tightly together. It’s an adorable expression and Oswald can’t help but blush harder looking at it.

“Excellent teamwork,” Oswald teases with a twist of his head. “I see we think alike.”

Ed crouches back down to Oswald’s level and hugs his knees, still making that same silly smile, but with his face slightly obscured, as he ducks his head behind his knees.

“Come back over,” Oswald tells him, and he tumbles over his long limbs, eagerly returning to Oswald’s arms. He rearranges them so Ed’s back is pressed into Oswald’s chest; Ed slides down, locks his legs together and draws them under himself, switching their size difference almost instantly. Resting his chin in Ed’s hair, Oswald brushes a hand down his arm, replacing nervous energy with their new language of gentle caresses. Too embarrassed to try returning to their previous mood, Oswald settles for breathing in Ed’s scent in long, hungry drags, desperate for one more inhale, like a smoker indulging their thrill. _Just once, just once I want to,_ Oswald almost whispers to himself—if he speaks out loud, it’s because he can’t keep a tight grasp on _here_ and _there_ in his mind, between _want_ and _have_. Tipping his head, he mouths along the back of Ed’s neck, nose pressed into the skin, both his hands gripping Ed above the elbows. Just once he had to know, had to feel, to taste.

“What are you thinking about? You’re so quiet,” he rasps, eyes closed, sucking in breaths; sobriety should have saved him but has instead dropped him into an all new state of intoxication.

It’s not entirely disagreeable.

“ _You,_ ” Ed whimpers in all earnesty, craning his neck with hopes that Oswald’s will continue but the only thing that lavishes his heated skin is a quickened, warm breath. It’s not enough, he needs more, he _wants_ more. “I want,” Ed tries to clarify, words stolen by the tightening of Oswald’s hands. He attempts is again, “I want,” but his tongue lays heavy in his mouth. _I want you. I want you to kiss me and steal my every breath. I want you to touch me and reprogram me so you are the only person my body knows and forever remembers. I want the stars to forever contain the memory of this night._ A chorus of “I want” could spill from his mouth, one after another, if he could speak. Ed straightens his legs and rubs them together, ankles crisscrossing. He can’t break out of his thoughts, his wishes, his desires. They turn in his head, whiting his mind, reducing him to fundamental basics; a brewing hunger that only Oswald can sate.

Turning his head, joints rolling languidly, Ed kisses Oswald’s jaw, peppering small presses of his lips up and down. His hand finds its way to Oswald’s and tightens over the top of it. Ed’s more than ready to show him what he wants. He might not be able to say it, words lost to him in his current state of mind, but his actions are not as restricted. It’s the sound of a small bang followed by the jutting sound of laughter that rips Ed out of his daze. He bolts upright, heart hammering in his chest and peers around, only to bury his face in his hands seconds later. Ed’s shoulders sag and he groans in frustration at the moment lost. _Damn it, Kristen…a few more seconds and—_

“Ed, come lay back down.” Oswald’s hands land on Ed’s back, rubbing up and down, relaxing his joints, soothing his tension. Soon enough he is shuffling back into position, wrapping Oswald’s arms around himself. 

“I wish people would stop interrupting us,” he whines, pulling the blanket up his chest. It’s growing colder, but the warmth of Oswald’s body is enough to starve off any chill. “I don’t want tonight to end,” he comments and the arms around him tightens in response. It’s been too perfect, almost dreamlike. Oswald accepted his invitation, his touches, his history. He opened up and shared his own, too. A connection like this…it’s unrivalled, unparalleled, unconceivable, and somehow Ed managed to find it. The one man who understands him.

“Oswald…what do you think of the stars?” he asks quietly, tilting his head back to appraise the sky. Sadly, there is not much to see, the light pollution from the city blackens out what would be a miraculous sight, but through the haze Ed manages to pinpoint a few of the brighter, scintillating specks. “I once called them home. No matter where I went, what family I was living with, what atrocities befell me…the stars were always there. They never change, they never leave…they just _are._ ”

“I would watch them, reach for them. I’d stretch my arms as far as I could to try and grasp the happiness, love, and security life denied me, and although the stars evaded me, they became my only comfort.” Drawing his knees close to him, Ed cradles his arms around Oswald’s own. He lapses into silence, safe and secure in the embrace, discovering for the first time what home feels like. It’s never been a place for Ed, all the shuffling and shunting about detached him from what most people have. Home for him became people; Kristen in some ways, Fox in others, but with Oswald, nothing can compare.

“Continue, I’m listening.” Ed smiles, heart swelling, eyes prickling. Oswald understands him perfectly. _Where have you been all my life? Why did it take me so long to discover what you truly mean to me?_ Rubbing his head against Oswald own, Ed continues.

“I discovered their names—the stars—I researched the stories and history of the constellations and I would talk with them, pretend that their flickers were a language designed wholly for me. I—I know what they are of course, I can label the density and composition of more than a few, but their mysticism is something I have _never_ been able to detach myself from. They have the tendency to make people feel small, like their mountainous problems are but stepping stones, easily crossed in the grand scheme of things. After all, how could anyone or anything compare to all of _that_ —” Ed waves his hand through the air, stretching it out into the darkness above before letting it fall to his lap, “—but you do.”

Ed’s heartbeat triples with nervous flutters that tickle his lowest ribs. There are a multitude of sensations brewing and building inside of him, most of which he is struggling to pinpoint or name. His entire body is alive, bursting with brightness, spreading out like a supernova. Turning on the cushions, Ed focuses his eyes on Oswald and rests a hand on his chest. The gaze he receives in return is so tender and unguard that Ed could happily lose himself in it for eternity. He knows with all certainty that he would wish for little else in life for this is what he has been waiting for, searching and reaching for. The sounds of laughter stemming from inside Kristen’s apartment fades away along with all the noises of the city. Up here, removed from the chaos of Gotham, from the never ending blaze of sirens and screeches he feels free, free surrounded by all that is Oswald Cobblepot. Heat blossoms in Ed’s cheeks as he strokes his fingers back and forth over Oswald’s heart.

“Ed?” His name is but the softest of sounds, spoken in a way he cannot say he’s heard before. His lashes flutter, brushing the lenses of his glasses, lips parting, struggling to take in breath. _How do you do this to me?_

“I, _ah_ …I have more to say. Just—just let me….” Diverting his gaze, withdrawing from Oswald’s magnetic pull is a task near impossible. The more time they spend together, the less restraint Ed has. It is an arduous battle between desire and decorum. With a bite to his bottom lip, Ed allows his sights to fall as he concentrates on the soft breeze brushing over the back of his neck, providing a stimulation that doesn’t originate from the man holding him.

“Oswald, I don’t have to do that when I am with you—pretend, hope and wish for happiness because I’ve already found it,” he explains, linking back to his earlier thoughts. “You are—you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. Whatever we are—are we friends? I think I’d like that—but that’s not the point. The _point_ is,” Ed enunciates, tapping his finger against his forehead, dropping it within seconds to tug at his collar, “our interactions are not artificial. I—I don’t have to… _perform_ with you, I can be myself.”

Training his gaze on Oswald, Ed is overcome with an ineffable sense of _love_. There is no other word that can encapsulate the way he is feeling. _I’m in love with you._ A breath of laughter escapes him as begins to stroke Oswald’s cheek, catching the faint sight of his freckles emerging after all the caresses. “You are an unsolvable puzzle. You confuse me to endless depths and leave me scrambling for answers, but Oswald you—you are the _one_ question I could spend forever answering. Meeting you has changed my life for the better.”

Ed’s words are so profound, so intimate and wholly what Oswald has waited a lifetime to hear, he wonders how he knew the exact words to speak to reach right into Oswald’s chest and clench his heart. Cupping Ed’s jaw, Oswald tilts his head back and leans in to kiss him, the urge overtaking the hesitation that’s been holding him back; Oswald feels tears prickle behind his eyelids, closed while he focuses on the tingling sensation of Ed’s lips finally against his own, before licking into Ed’s mouth. Ed whimpers, moans, lets Oswald deepen the kiss, both of them clinging to each other. The feeling of Ed’s long legs scrambling as he tries to climb closer against Oswald, struggling in Oswald’s lap, makes him pull back for a moment to shush Ed, stroking his fingertips through Ed’s hair, resting his forehead against Ed’s.

“ _Edward_ ,” Oswald rasps, voice hoarse and scratchy, digging his fingers into Ed’s waist (he didn’t realize he’d even let his hand drift that low…). It’s too dangerous to continue this here; Oswald refuses to suffer the humiliation of someone interrupting again. It doesn’t matter that it seems as if every simple interference possible is being cosmically orchestrated to prevent them from what Oswald is _sure_ they both desperately want. Now that Oswald’s had a taste, he’s ready to claim more, and now that he’s heard the depth of emotion in Ed’s heart, he wants nothing more than to make Ed _his_.

With another quick nipping kiss, Oswald drags a hand down Ed’s chest. “I think it’s time to go,” he comments, low and pointed, staring into Ed’s wide-opened eyes.

Ed breathes, at least he thinks he is…he’s not sure how much oxygen he is retaining. His head is swimming, skin tingling. He’s struggling to reconnect with his mind. The blood in his body feels like it is completing it’s cycling motion in the opposite direction, course altered the very second Oswald’s mouth met his own and it has yet to correct itself. “ _Go?_ ” Ed croaks, repeating Oswald’s last word. “Go _where?_ ” He searches the depths of Oswald’s eyes for the answer but struggles to pinpoint one. He doesn’t want to go anywhere, he wants to stay here, under the stars and blankets, wrapped in Oswald’s arms, savouring his kisses and caresses. _Oswald kissed me…properly this time._ It wasn’t a peck on the forehead or cheek, it was—

Ed gasps and sucks in a greedy breath, the air washes over his tongue and moves quickly down to his lungs, then it leaves again. It’s unattainable, something he believed Oswald once was…but that was before tonight, before they shared their stories and bared their souls. _Okay, this is—wow._ Ed has kissed people before…if it could be called kissing. Kristen and Foxy put an end to it before it could barely begin. They were merely the wrong participants, victims of misplaced affection. They weren’t Oswald.

Scrambling to his knees, tucking his long legs beneath him, Ed shuffles forward and picks up Oswald’s hands. He places them on his chest and guides them down his torso, shivering slightly. All he has ever wanted is this, someone who reciprocates his feelings, accepts him and his attention…and that someone is Oswald. “Can we stay?” he pleads, dropping his head pressing his lips to Oswald’s jaw. They’re still tingling, _buzzing_ , his entire body is, only this time it isn’t fueled by the alcohol. “I don’t want to leave, I don’t want _you_ to leave.” His eyelashes flutter closed, weighed down as he worms his way closer, not that it’s physically possible. His chest is almost fully flushed with Oswald’s now, heart racketing so hard he’s certain Oswald will be able to feel it. “Can you just…hold me, kiss me, touch me?” Ed’s mouth connects with Oswald’s cheek, jaw and chin, peppering small kisses until he reaches the corner of his lips. “ _Please,_ ” he all but begs, or maybe it is a beg, a desperate plea for something more, for their night to continue and never end. “Please, Oswald. Stay with me.” At the following beat of his heart, Ed connects their mouths.

Oswald inhales sharply, groaning as he drags Ed flat against him, one hand snaking its way back to Ed’s hair, another roving down past Ed’s belt. Forgetting, Oswald tries to throw his damaged leg around Ed’s waist, wanting to close the last inches of space between them that they’ve both desperately tried to be polite enough to avoid all evening. Swinging his other leg, Oswald yanks Ed in, possessive and _hungry_. The force of Oswald’s maneuvering catches Ed off-guard, and he almost crumbles, _melting_ against Oswald, as he reaches down to grab Ed by the rear and pull him into his lap. Both of them gasp at the contact, and they breathe the same shared breath, hot and wet and already panting.

“That’s enough,” Oswald chokes out, gulping. That was hard to say— _very hard_. He has to pry Ed’s hands off him by the wrists and Ed mewls, gasps and quakes all at once. Dropping his gaze, he looks Ed over with half-lidded eyes; he’s a disheveled mess already, glasses fogging up, flushed red and mouth open so sweetly. It takes all of Oswald’s willpower to not grind Ed down into him, or to stick his fingers in the corner of Ed’s mouth. Too many long-repressed fantasies crash through Oswald’s mind at once—he’s fortunate his capacity for self-regulation and repression are strong enough to have gotten him through the evening, because he is dangerously close to throwing it all away to twist and tackle Ed into the cushions, press him down, enjoy that desperate, wanton look in those soft, brown eyes, with his fingers wrapped around Ed’s wrists—

“I’m serious, Ed, don’t test this,” he warns, when Ed drops his head, kissing Oswald’s chest and anywhere else his lips land, whimpering as Oswald untangles them from each other. “Shape up. I said we’re leaving.” Reaching for the hair in Ed’s face, he combs it back and lifts Ed’s head with one motion. “I want to take you home,” he murmurs, staring at Ed, eyes narrowing, his meaning clear. “We have to—to catch our breath and _leave_.”

 _Home…home where we will be alone. Home, where my bed is._ Ed smiles into his next breathless pant and his stomach twinges. Oswald said they need to calm down, collect themselves…well, no, he said _breathe_ but that’s another task Ed deems almost impossible. Turning his head, he kisses Oswald’s palm, lips lingering. Is it too much to hope that the world will disappear and they could be encased in their own private bubble, where they’d be able to touch and taste each other without interruption? Widening his mouth slightly, Ed whimpers and nips the skin of Oswald’s hand, trailing his lips up his fingertips before reefing himself back with a shake of his head. Igniting Oswald’s ire is the _last_ thing Ed wants to do, as to do so would deny them what is to come later…

Running a hand down his face and neck, Ed tugs at his collar. _Breathe_ , he tries to tell himself as his blurred sight begins to clear, but the distance doesn’t make it any easier…not with the way Oswald is watching— _staring_ at him. A desperate whine escapes Ed’s throat as crosses his legs over each other, squirming on the spot. He _needs_ friction…Oswald’s touch. It takes every scrap of control he can scrounge to force his gaze to the night’s sky. _Breathe,_ he reminds himself again, only now it’s beginning to work. Ed sucks in the frigid air and holds it in his lungs, willing it to cool the heat rising within him. His body quakes with internal shudders and Ed balls his hands into fists as he begins counting the miniscule number of stars in the sky. _One…eight…seventeen._ Mind engaged in other activities, he _finally_ starts to settle, tense muscles unclenching, arousal lessening. It’s still there but it’s manageable, less overwhelming.

Rising to his feet, his legs tingle. Ed paces the fire-escape, shaking his hands and flicking his fingers before he halts on the spot. He offers a palm to Oswald and smiles, biting the tip of his tongue. “ _Home?”_

“ _Yes_ ,” Oswald replies, hoarse and shaking. Calming himself down had been a monumental task, with the _spectacle_ Ed made of his own process through the same challenge. _How fast can I get us out of here,_ he thinks, already imagining dragging Ed back onto that dismal-looking comforter of his. That’s where Oswald wants him: on Ed’s bed, where their whole story began. There’s a _torrent_ of ideas Oswald has for new memories to forge in that same place that already holds so much history for them.

Heart pounding and face flushed, Oswald reaches over to the window, scooting sideways to pivot and pull it open. Ed notices what he’s doing and assists him. Thanking Ed under his breath, he shoves the blankets back in the apartment, chucking the cushions in after them. His legs shake as he tries to stand, and Ed reaches out to help him up—they pull away from each other _immediately_ after Oswald rises to his feet, and they both chuckle, the reasoning why so clear. “Once we get outside,” Oswald whispers, climbing in first.

“It’s late, we’re leaving!” Oswald shouts at an already startled-looking duo of Kristen and Zsasz, _still_ playing some card game, or, more interestingly, _faking_ it, as Oswald looks at their hands—some of the cards are turned backwards, and Kristen is fidgeting to get all of hers in a fan. Zsasz spins around, his knee crashing into the table leg, scattering the already messy discard pile onto the floor; Kristen jumps up with a squeak to grab the bottle of whiskey by the neck, before it hits the floor.

They _didn’t_. The _bastards_ , they were _watching_ , weren’t they—Oswald’s fists ball up, arousal quickly replacing itself with a wave of rage.

Ed tumbles through the window, getting his own legs caught in the frame. He stumbles, saving himself from falling with a wave of his arms, and crashes full-force into Oswald, who manages to brace the fall by planting his feet and catching Ed again. All four of them stay motionless for a moment, quiet except for Ed’s stream of mumbled apologies, as he fixes his glasses with twitching fingers.

“Good _night_ ,” Oswald all but bellows, yanking his coat and cane from the side of the couch, where he left them. Spotting Ed’s coat, he nabs that, as well, before reaching for his wrist, tugging him towards the door, a silent way to tell him it’s time to follow his lead.

“I better come with you,” Zsasz springs to his feet. Oh, why did Oswald _bring him?_ He’s never hated a previous version of himself more than the _idiot_ who, half a day ago, came up with the plan to have Zsasz stop him doing from the very thing he’s about to _burst_ if he can’t have within the _hour_.

“Eddie, you’re going to stay and help me clean up this mess, aren’t you?” Kristen motions towards the pile of blankets and cushions. Ed literally whines in frustration as response, pressing his fingers into his eyes, about to claw at his own face. She throws her shoulders back in shock, before waving away the request. “Ok, that’s fine, I’ll see you later! Goodnight?” she tells them both, Zsasz already out the door, waiting for them. Oswald fumes, makes a show of grinning, and marches for the door, pulling Ed along behind him.

Ed stumbles over his feet and follows Oswald’s lead out the door, desperate to get home, longing for the weight of Oswald’s body on his. _Why hasn’t a teleporter been invented yet? It would make life much easier._ He throws his head over his shoulder and peers back at Kristen, a difficult task with the way Oswald is stroking his wrist, and smiles lopsidedly. “Sorry,” he squeaks. Any other night he would have stayed to clean up the mess he made, hating leaving the place disorderly but tonight is _well beyond_ a standard evening. Kristen can tidy up on her own, he has no intention of doing anything of the sort.

“I—bye,” he says, pulling the door closed when Kristen nods at him, and as it clicks, he redirects his attention to the man standing inches away. Ed smiles through a fluttering of his lashes and snatches up his jacket off Oswald’s arm, shrugging it on, doing all he can to restrain himself from melting into him. To lose himself to headless sensations before they’ve even made it out of the building would be to his own detriment. There’s an empty apartment waiting a few blocks away, he can control himself until then…or so he thought.

It’s only after Oswald put his own jacket that Ed cannot deny himself their connection. He strokes his hands across Oswald’s shoulders and tugs on his lapels, straightening him up. Helping Oswald dress is not what Ed wants to be doing, but it’s necessary. _Soon_ , he tells himself and his stomach clenches in response. _Soon._

When his wrist is encircled again, Ed folds and cranes his neck to presses his lips to the corner of Oswald’s jaw twice. “Home,” he whispers and Oswald repeats it back to him, hand tightening. Ed never wants him to let go, his oversensitive skin tingles and he loses himself to future thoughts of having Oswald’s touch unobstructed, fingers gliding over his naked body. _Soon._

But first, they need to get rid of Zsasz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy! That was some kiss, huh? The trust Ed and Oswald have in each other has grown so much. They have divulged secrets and other things their previous relationship denied. They are seeing each other as people, not obstructions or tools. It's beautiful to see their relationship blossom and I am sure we all know what's coming in the next chapter ;)
> 
> As usual, we would like to thank you for reading this fic and for all your comments. We look forward to them with every update <3


	10. The Answer Is Always Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Oswald ditch Zsasz and make their way back to Ed's apartment. From behind the closed door, passion ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just smut. Sure, it's still part of the plot and character-developing, but we're serious, it's just smut. Also, it's the size of a novella.
> 
> Happy reading!

“So, where are we off to?” Zsasz asks, too loudly for the distance between him, Ed, and Oswald, who walk side-by-side, fingers brushing each other’s wrists and arms through coat sleeves, longing to touch properly again but forced to be circumspect in light of their unwanted company.

Zsasz walks backwards ( _the showoff_ ) so he can completely face both members of the new couple. With hands shoved into his pockets, his face is nothing but one large, plastered-on grin, and Oswald quickly smothers the flaring urge to smack it off his face.

It helps that Zsasz trips on a rise in the concrete he didn’t see coming, and Ed bursts into giggles when Zsasz stumbles and braces himself mid-fall by a nearby pole. Ed’s toothy grin crinkles his entire face and Oswald wants to grab him by the cheeks and kiss him more strongly than ever.

“Well, it’s been lovely, old friend, but it is time for us to be saying goodnight and good _bye_ , Victor,” Oswald says, letting his palm drift up to the small of Ed’s back instead, the corner of his elbow framing Ed’s waist. “Edward,” Oswald croons, making the hold he has around him infinitesimally more tight, more possessive, “let’s be on our way.” Ed flushes and starts to stammer out a response he swallows down instead, nodding at the end, his own fingers scrambling to cling to whatever they can reach on Oswald, which ends up being the edge of his coat.

Moseying up to them both, Zsasz blinks and studies their hands—or where he seems to not be able to account for the lack of presence of hands.

“What are you doing?” Oswald asks, not kindly.

Squinting at him in response, Zsasz drops his chin and purses his lips. “I thought you invited me out so we could catch up. Rude to cut our evening short, don’t you think? Besides, I’m sure Eddie here has somewhere to be?” Zsasz’s look turns to a glare and his tone becomes pointed as he says, “surely he has somewhere to go…that isn’t with you…isn’t that right, mister?”

The intake of breath from Ed hints to Oswald the darkening of his mood before Ed’s voice gives that away. “It really is in your best interests to leave now, Detective Zsasz,” he growls, sliding his hand into Oswald’s pocket, fingers balled in a fist.

“I do have to agree,” Oswald says, stroking Ed’s back to calm him. “Let’s end the evening here; I’ll see Ed back to his place, and you and I will see each other at work.”

Grimacing, Zsasz plants a hand on Oswald’s shoulder, with force clearly meant to navigate him away from Ed. “Alright, we need to talk, Ozzie. In _private_.” He pulls on Oswald’s shoulder once more.

“ _Get_ your hands off of me, Zsasz, I swear—”

“Look,” Zsasz hisses in his ear, effectively drawing him away, “this is your last chance for me to intervene. Last chance for you to ask me to bail you out of this, and we both know that’s why you invited me. Don’t do this if you’re going to regret it,” he says softly, eyes wide with earnestness. “you don’t have the best track record with these sorts of things and I don’t want you feeling that I failed you, or you failed yourself, when I was more than—”

“Stop,” Oswald interrupts, with gentleness and not malice. They’re far enough away from Ed now that Ed surely is trying to listen, but can’t claim to hear them easily—or so Oswald hopes. “Stop. I appreciate it, Victor, I really do, but I know what I’m doing. _Trust me._ ” _If you could only understand what he means to me now, you would have no doubt, either…_ “Your assistance is well-intentioned, and I felt was necessary only a few hours ago, but…” Oswald giggles a little, finding it hard to hold back his joy. “I was so mistaken,” he says with such fondness, such _force_ , it sparks a slight edge of tears in his eyes.

With three careful steps, leaning heavily on his cane, Oswald returns to Ed’s side, and snakes an arm around him again, boldly encouraging Ed to step forward with a hand planted on his backside.

“Goodnight again!” Oswald sings out, waving a hand over his shoulder as they both walk past Zsasz in a hurry.

“Oh, alright, come on,” Zsasz calls out, standing still. “Look, I ask this from the depths of my heart and in complete seriousness—from what I’ve seen so far, you two are pretty hot together, so can I at least come and _watch?_ I promise, I won’t even—”

Oswald spins so quickly his coattails slap Ed’s legs. Throwing his cane forward, he lunges at Zsasz, _screeching_ in rage, forcing Zsasz to back up instantly, with his hands raised in surrender, laughing heartily. “Message received, boss! You two kids have fun,” he chuckles, turning down the street to walk away from them both.

“Oh my,” Ed breathes, and Oswald turns back, runs the hand holding his cane down Ed’s chest, and thanks the heavens for their height difference, so he can’t easily kiss Ed, for if he did, they would be doomed to not leave the street they’re on until they’ve had enough of a taste of each other, and Oswald is almost sure they’re going to reach that point a very, _very_ long time from now.

~~~

Twenty minutes later Ed bounces on his feet and wiggles his toes in his shoes, wishing time would speed up. The elevator is taking too long. What is generally a one minute trip to his apartment is tripling in comparison, and all Ed is able to do, as he struggles through the endless wait, is fantasize about what’s to come. A tingle on the back of his neck has Ed shuddering, skin prickling as he imagines Oswald pushing him against the wall, kissing him thoroughly, and connecting their bodies. It spreads _lower_ at the thought of Oswald’s hands grabbing and caressing every inch of him. There is little wonder why he is twitching in his pants and breathing heavily.

Ed pinches his bottom lip and drops his chin to his chest, he peeks at Oswald over the top of his frames and his cheeks burn at the heady stare he finds. It’s soft but filled with so much _intensity_ that Ed struggles to hold it for long, knowing what would come if he does.

They’ve barely done anything but share a few kisses and yet Ed feels his control slipping. The _need_ to lose himself in Oswald’s arms is overwhelming, he’s never wanted something… _someone_ more. He’s envisioned this occurring countless times as he tossed and turned in his bed, crying out with his hand wrapped around himself and now… _it is_. Ed combs his hand through his hair as his curls tickle his forehead and when the elevator comes to a stop, he slides the metal gate open with haste, pinching his finger in the process. It doesn’t matter, he hardly even feels it, mind too focused on other matters, like the way Oswald’s hand tightens around his own as they approach his door.

Laughing his way through his ever-increasing nerves, Ed unlocks the sliding door to his apartment, almost fumbling his keys in the process. His eyes flick around the room, only to dart back to his bed, magnetized to the very point.

For so long he’s had the urge to _show_ Oswald what he means to him, using a vector other than his stuttered words, only now he doesn’t know how to go about it. Desire pumps through him, but butterflies flutter around it. _What if I make a mistake? What if—_ Ed smiles and shakes his head at his silliness. He trusts Oswald with every part of himself and for Ed, that’s profound.

Biting his lip, he reaches out and takes hold of Oswald’s arms, blinking rapidly as he walks backwards and guides him inside.

“Kiss me,” he whispers, dropping his lips to Oswald’s shoulder, shunting the door closed with one hand. When an arm wraps around his waist, Ed lets his eyes fall closed and he slips back into the moment they shared at the club earlier that evening. Shifting his mouth to a patch of skin on Oswald’s neck, Ed repeats himself. 

“Kiss me. _Please_ kiss me.” Melding their bodies together, he trails his nose across the underside of Oswald’s jaw, breath growing shallow, working his way to Oswald’s lips and his stomach flops at the sound of the cane hitting the floor. 

“ _Please_ ,” Ed whimpers into Oswald’s ear, hands tightening on his shoulders. Although it is a task Ed could do himself, he wants Oswald to take the lead until all he is able to do is swallow down his passion and live on the taste of his breath.

Oswald runs his hands up Ed’s waist, rucking his shirt up out of his belt on purpose—his fingers tingle with the mere _idea_ of finally being able to feel Ed’s skin under his. Twisting the both of them, Oswald maneuvers Ed’s back up against the door, tracing over Ed’s sides again and again, unable to move on from the sensation of Ed quaking under his hands with each stroke. Ed keeps mouthing at him, his choked pleas and hot breath all over Oswald’s skin, up until his back meets the door and he gasps, eyes hooded and body pliant under Oswald’s guidance and ministrations.

“How could I not, when you’ve asked so sweetly?” Oswald teases, but he’s sure his voice is so raw and husky that it gives away how anxious and unsure he is that he’ll impress someone as seductive as Ed in any possible way. Still, the few times he’s allowed himself to drift into fantasies of Ed are now all _possibilities_ for their evening, and Oswald intends on capitalizing on Ed’s eagerness and his own heady desire.

With a careful tug of Ed’s tie and the front of his shirt, Oswald grips the garments and pulls Ed down to match his own height. Ed’s knees buckle under him and he bends them, Oswald slotted between his now-spread thighs. He kisses Ed, deepening it so quickly Ed moans, his grip on Oswald’s shoulders now vice-like. Licking into Ed’s mouth, Oswald groans: he tastes so _good_ , his lips electric as they rub against his own, his mouth warm and inviting. He never thought he’d _want_ this with Ed, not this badly, nor did he expect it would be this _perfect_. There’s no other word for it. They fit each other perfectly—if their conversations tonight didn’t prove that, then their chemistry certainly did.

Well, maybe they fit together perfectly in every way but _frame_ —as Oswald snakes a hand up Ed’s chest, no longer any need to hold him in place, not with Ed doing that himself, he strokes Ed’s jaw as he dives into another heated kiss, grazing his teeth against Ed’s mouth in his hunger, and Ed bucks again, almost collapsing to the floor. Oswald catches him again, just as he had earlier that night. He chuckles, after making sure Ed is okay; Ed flushes in what must be embarrassment, judging by the shocked look in his eyes, but he loosens up and joins Oswald in laughing after a moment as well, pulling himself back up on his own feet.

“We’re going to your bed,” Oswald says, too aroused to be anything but blunt. “I’ve wanted you there most of the night, couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he confesses, pushing his hips into Ed. Both of them shudder when they feel the press of each other’s _interest_ against their own bodies. 

“I don’t like the memories I have of the last time I was there,” Oswald explains, talking with no filter, no conscious awareness of his words, only capable of being as open and honest as their desire for each other is consuming and raw. “I want to do it over, change how we spend our time there.” 

He fixes Ed with a stare, each breath Oswald takes hanging between them as Ed whimpers and closes his eyes, dropping his head back to the base of Oswald’s neck. Pulling Ed forward by the waist—for a man with such a large frame, his body is so _lithe_ , Oswald has no problem wrapping both hands around his center—he walks them backwards, Ed allowing him to guide them.

It takes Ed a few steps before he realizes that he can’t navigate the way with his eyes closed. He cracks them open but it’s a struggle, desire fighting against necessity. Oswald’s hands stroke his waist, fingers brushing his skin and Ed does all he can to not collapse again. If his body is to give way, he’d rather it happen on the bed where he doesn’t have to concern himself with shuffling elsewhere. Tilting his head, he lavishes the skin of Oswald’s neck with small kisses and soft nips of his teeth, savouring his every gasp. It’s too much, the sounds invade his mind and bounce back and forth, yet Ed cannot find the will to stop. His feet keep moving of their own accord as his hands rid Oswald of his jacket, and it falls to the floor seconds later.

“Keep touching me,” Ed whines, eyes unfocused and the following sound that reaches his ears is so deep and hearty, Ed scarcely believes it’s his own voice. _Can I make noises like that?_ His body, mind, every inch of him craves more. It’s intoxicating, more so than the copious amounts of alcohol he consumed earlier. A new lifesource has been discovered and Ed wants to drown in it. “I’ve wanted this for so long—wanted _you_. Not like before,” Ed squeaks. “This is real, not false ideals.”

Oswald mumbles something Ed can’t make out over the sound of his blood rushing past his ears. His heart beats out of time, but it’s not worrisome. It’s internal proof of his excitement as opposed to the outer variety he periodically presses into Oswald, hips moving. Through the haze, Ed hears his name moaned and it’s so beautiful that he could indulge in it for the rest of his life. Oswald's hands brush up and down Ed’s chest, nails scratching lightly. Ed’s breath catches and whimpers worm their way through his constricted throat. _More. I need more. The bed!_ he thinks and Oswald chuckles.

“Did I—did I say that?”

“Yes,” Oswald replies, lips connecting with Ed’s collarbone. _When did my shirt get unbuttoned?_ It doesn’t bother him, in fact, it’s freeing. Ed drops his arms and shrugs it off his shoulders, letting it fall where it pleases. He can clean up later; there are more pressing matters to see to.

Closing in on the bed, Ed detaches from Oswald, _rather reluctantly_ , and plops himself down on the edge, legs slipping out beneath him. He drops his head to his shoulder and peers up at Oswald, eyes barely drawing focus. Why is sight always the first sense to leave him? He wants to revel in the heavy stare Oswald is pinning him with but his brain refuses to cooperate. With twitching fingers and unsteady hands, Ed grasps Oswald’s hips and encourages him closer, to fill the space between his legs.

A wave of arousal washes through Ed, prompting a groan which he presses into Oswald’s stomach. “Why do you still have this on?” he mumbles into the fabric of Oswald’s shirt, bottom lip catching one of the buttons. Ed quakes and flicks his lip against it before swallowing down the water in his mouth. He quickly attends to it, ridding Oswald of his distracting clothing. Smooth skin soon meets his heated cheeks and Ed mouths his way across it till Oswald’s hands come to rest on his head, threading through the strands of his hair, sensations weaving deeply in his core. Thoughts evade Ed, only an unfulfilled sense of need consumes him. “Please, Oswald, _please_ …I can’t—I _need…_ ” 

Ed nips Oswald’s skin and squirms on the spot. His fingers press firmer and his glasses cut into his face but Ed can’t separate himself from the feeling of Oswald…and he doesn’t want to. “O-Oswald….”

“I know, Ed, me too,” Oswald whispers back, lost in the all-consuming rush of emotions he’s feeling, adoration and _devotion_ for the beautiful man sitting before him ranking at the top of the list. Combing his hands through Ed’s hair again, Oswald blinks back tears that rise in the corners of his eyes, a surprising addition to every other form of expression being intimate with Ed has already invoked. _I almost lost you because I can’t keep my temper in check,_ Oswald thinks, as he bends Ed’s head up and back to kiss him again, cradling his head as Oswald pushes flush against him. He’s never felt anything as good as the press of their bare skin against each other, never imagined this man would come to mean this much to him, never wanting to live in any other moment than this.

Oswald can’t speak everything that’s spinning through his mind, and the decision to _show_ Ed what he’s feeling (and fulfill every one of Ed’s desires, clearly difficult enough for _him_ to speak) drives Oswald forward. 

“What do you need, Ed?” he asks, voice scratchy and heavy, running his palms down Ed’s chest (his skin is so smooth, so soft, it’s the finest, most precious thing Oswald’s ever _touched_ ). Dark whispers flood his mind in an instant, with visions of marking it as _his_ ; just at the same moment, the overwhelming desire to kiss his way down each of Ed’s scars, pay respect to the nightmares Ed has endured (as if the reverence might heal the evidence of damage) makes him swallow thickly.

Pressing between Ed’s legs, Oswald digs his fingertips into Ed’s shoulders. “Move back,” he instructs, and with shaking arms, Ed does as told, looking behind him, mouth open and glasses almost falling off his face, as he scoots back, Oswald climbing up towards him. It’s painful to kneel like this, but Oswald has specific ideas and he refuses to be held back from making them reality. Balancing most of his weight on his uninjured leg, he tells Ed to get to the foot of the bed and lays him down himself, rubbing a hand down Ed’s back, shifting his weight (and hips) on top of him. Oswald hisses both from the mix of pain and pleasure as their arousals meet. Oswald’s so hard he can barely _think_ , and he runs on instinct and lust as he fulfills Ed’s request to keep touching him.

Kissing across Ed’s cheekbones, Ed cries out and whimpers in response to each touch; Oswald can’t stop stroking his back, studying every slip from velvet-smoothness to jagged rivets and badly-healed scars. (He’s covered in his own scars, stories he never wants to tell _anyone_ , but _oh_ , he’ll tell Ed when he inevitably asks; he would tell Ed anything, share anything with him, hell, Ed’s seen him half-nude and hasn’t gone running, that alone would have earned Oswald’s devotion and trust, if he hadn’t already shared so much with Ed and only been accepted, touched and _caressed_ and _respected_ for all of it.) 

Crushing the tears that form when he thinks again about why anyone would hurt Ed, Oswald jolts every time both of them rub against each other. They’re both holding back, trying to make this last as long as possible, for each time they meet the smallest friction; they both struggle, gasps and tightened grips in response to every inch closer they get to losing themselves in each other.

Ed’s not the only one fixated with touching Oswald. He praises Ed in between kisses, lavishing him in compliments and pet names, working his way down Ed’s jaw, across his cheeks, to the top of his neck, the thrill of fulfilling Ed’s fervent requests driving him as nothing else ever has to such carnal heights. Oswald’s never wanted anyone like this, never felt this level of erotic craving and _thirst_ before, to keep Ed’s hands on him, to draw those whimpers and fractured pleas from his lips all night, if he can. Breathing in the scent of Ed, nose running along the underside of his jaw, Oswald scratches Ed’s back lightly, grinning amazed and dazed when Ed clenches up in response, body bending with pleasure.

With his next kiss to the long, pale column of Ed’s neck, Oswald switches to nipping his taut skin with his teeth, making Ed shake again and shout out in pleasure. Oswald hums in appreciation, mouth still connected to his neck, as he sucks, savoring the taste of Ed’s skin as it meets his tongue, lapping before he shifts locations, to repeat the process and reap the rewards again and again. Ed’s fingers shake and he blathers incoherently, one hand buried in Oswald’s hair, the other cupped over Oswald’s pounding heart.

“Do you know how beautiful you are, Ed?” he asks, kissing along Ed’s collarbones, being whisper-soft with each press on purpose, just to test if reservation presents the same delicious outcome in Ed’s reactions as demonstrativeness does (the answer—as all questions involving Ed is, which he’s quickly learning—is _yes_ ). 

“Tonight at the bar, on the dancefloor, in my arms on the fire escape, when you bring me coffee and look at me expectantly for gratitude,” he punctuates each of these occurrences with more kisses, and Ed all but _wails_ , pressing against him, as he talks. “In that alleyway when you saved my _life_ ,” Oswald moans Ed’s name as he remembers. “You were going to kill them, weren’t you,” he comments, replaying the moments he first felt his heart stir for Edward Nygma. “Jim Gordon, the other one. I saw it in your eyes, I recognized it. But you didn’t,” Oswald finally moves up to kissing the side of Ed’s neck he’s been avoiding on purpose.

Ed’s laying on his back by now, looking up at Oswald with wide, wet eyes, pink lips and flushed cheeks, as Oswald rests his weight on top of him, bad leg cradled in one of Ed’s open hands. 

“You didn’t kill them because you knew it would disappoint me, didn’t you,” he’s not asking so much as telling—he feels Ed’s fervent nod as his jaw moves up and down, brushing along Oswald’s head. “You want to be a good man, like me, don’t you, Ed?” He licks Ed’s Adam’s apple, flat-tongued, a teaser of where else he plans to do the same. “Is there more to it than that, Ed? You want to be _mine_ , too, don’t you?” The words spill out of him with the confidence he thrives on when he isn’t _nervous_ —Ed doesn’t make him nervous, and while the newness of their coupling is still naturally nerve-inducing, he feels safe and _free_ with Ed—free to be himself. He feels _alive_ , in so many ways.

That confidence carries over into his most forward act yet, something he can’t deny himself any longer. With stalwart fervor, Oswald wraps his lips around the scar on Ed’s neck, from so many weeks ago, healed now but pink with fresh skin, and _sucks_ , worshipping Ed with the act, as if he can pull it off his skin, and leave a new mark, one of invisible passion and ardor, in its place.

Ed can’t breathe and his body shakes with little tremors that rattle between every joint like small earthquakes threatening to tear him apart. Oswald’s whispered words swirl deep inside of him, reaching a level of intensity that is near overwhelming. It’s the quintessence of life and Ed can almost taste it as his mouth hangs open, spilling strangled sounds above him. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he hisses as his fingers tighten in Oswald’s hair, desperate for something to ground him as he begins to detach from his body. Oswald is sucking every molecule of air out of Ed’s lungs through the scar on his throat, asphyxiating him in the most pleasant of ways and Ed surrenders to the enormity of it with tears pricking in his eyes.

“O-O-Oswald,” he cries in time with the clenching of his stomach. Ed rocks his hips, brushing their arousals together and _mewls_ when Oswald compliments the action, pressing down. It’s so good it’s _almost_ painful. Ed is wound so tight, his body throbbing and thumping with fervor. Each touch sears its way into his skin, branding him with invisible lines he’ll carry for the rest of his life. Forcing the back of his head further into the mattress, Ed bares his throat, allowing Oswald to continue with his ministrations. The scar is lavished with so much attention, Ed knows it’ll never be the same again. Oswald is reclaiming the first mark he bestowed and Ed is too far gone to make any comment on it.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs, unsure of what he is asking for and a vibration that _could_ be words or a voiceless moan batters against Ed’s Adam’s apple. Oswald thrusts down into him, slotting their clothed arousals together and there is a hand in Ed’s hair, pulling taut at the strands. 

“I—I’m—” Ed hooks a leg over Oswald’s hip and his mouth goes dry. The new angle sends his mind soaring and yet Ed wants him closer. He’s pinned beneath Oswald and it’s still not enough. When his fingers tingle, Ed slaps his palms down on Oswald’s lower back, holding him in place as he shifts back and forth, squirming and twisting about with total abandon.

His pants are too tight, his skin alight, and his vision flickers with specks of light. “I— _ah_ , yours,” Ed croaks into the air above him, repeating the word again and again, and as he continues, his utterances loses clarity until Ed is a moaning, gasping mess. He clutches at Oswald, who’s groaning heavily, and his hands grip at various points. His hips tilt, seeking out the much-needed friction until his body tenses and his mind washes away with a broken cry of Oswald’s name and a hot white zap.

Ed loses himself to the feeling of unmitigated euphoria. Detachment has never felt so pleasant, so _peaceful_. The weight on his chest is comforting, _safe_ , and all Ed can do is lie still and catch his breath, sucking air in greedily, refueling his body. He snaps back to himself when cool air licks his slickened skin. 

“D-don’t,” Ed rasps, voice rough, hands seeking out Oswald. “Don’t leave, ‘m not done yet.” Cracking his eyelids open, his eyes roll into place on a delay. The split view of Oswald soon morphs into one and Ed smiles lopsidedly.

“Hi,” he whispers, blinking slowly, brushing the strands of hair off his clammy forehead. Oswald is resting on the mattress beside him, face flushed, wet lips separated, sharing a bright but darkened stare. Ed shuffles closer, ignoring the stickiness in his underwear and pecks a kiss to Oswald’s chin and lips. “You—thank you, but please come back.” Ed’s not ready to let his overzealousness dictate their time together. After dancing around each other all night, he has more to give, more to share, more he wants to experience with the man who has captured his every thought and ensnared his heart.

“I didn’t mean to… _you know_ , so soon,” he says bashfully, eyes downcast. He’s not ashamed for his body’s reaction, it was unavoidable and thoroughly enjoyed. Ed only wishes he could have held out a little longer. “You— _gosh_ , Oswald…I…” 

There’s so much he wants to say, poetic proclamations about fate and emotions but his words are lacking, mind held stasis in its haze. Spying Oswald in the file room changed his life in ways Ed didn’t plan for…but as Ed props himself up on his elbow, he realizes there is little need to plan for everything. Sometimes the best things in life come in the form of surprises, not carefully constructed, profitable outcomes.

Oswald cups his cheek and Ed slowly raises his gaze, swallowing down the small huffs of breath which fan across his face. “I meant it…what I said,” Ed conveys, worming a leg between Oswald’s thighs, rubbing against his hardness, “I’m yours—well…I want to be, if you’ll have me?”

“Oh god, _Ed_ ,” Oswald groans, pulling Ed more fully on top of him, while he dives into another heated kiss. He’d heard this kind of kissing was called _soulkissing_ , mouths open and yielding to each other, tasting all one can in impassioned desperation, but the name sounded ridiculous until right now, while he’s _experiencing_ it, for he _wants_ Edward, right down to his soul, and beyond that.

“Yes, I want that,” Oswald remembers to answer, shifting himself against Ed, eye unfocused as he gasps out from the return of friction. He was _so close_ before, but once he realized Ed was finished, he didn’t want to continue…continue—well, he was trying to be a _gentleman_. Now that the option of _further_ lovemaking was possible, Oswald wanted to seize it, cling to it. Rolling his hips against Ed’s leg, eyes fluttering shut, he tries to gather his thoughts. 

What did Ed want again? Speaking from the heart would be simplest under the circumstances. “Obviously I’ll have you,” Oswald all but whines, body burning with sensation. “And I’m yours, if you’ll have me. Ed, _please_ , never leave, _forever_ , I can’t—”

Reaching down, Oswald fumbles to undo Ed’s belt buckle, wanting him out of the last of his clothing; if he’s going to come against Ed’s thigh, he wants to feel skin. Ed catches on and starts the same in return, trying to divest Oswald of his own pants. As Oswald reaches for Ed’s zipper, ignoring the quickly-growing cold patch, he loses his breath when he feels that Ed is growing hard again _already_. Shuddering and moaning in appreciation and wonder, Oswald slides his hands in Ed’s underwear to trace him with trembling fingers.

“You feel so good,” he whines outright this time, stroking, fixated on the feeling of Ed along his fingertips. Thrusting against Ed’s palm, still flat over the front of his pants, Oswald exhales out his nose, making a sound he’s never heard before out his throat at the same time. “I could come just like this, just feeling you, just _having you_ ,” he confesses, head thrown back against the bed. That’s how _good_ Ed is for him; that he could get off on this alone, Ed’s little whimpers and doe-eyed stare—to touch him, to have the connection they share, more erotic than anything Oswald ever dared dream was possible.

“Oh, _Oswald_ ,” Ed cries as firm fingers glide across his most intimate of places. No one has ever touched him there before, no one’s ever wanted to, wanted him. No one’s made Ed feel like is both toppling over a cliff and flying at the same time…but Oswald does—he does _all_ of that. Thrusting down into the hand cupping him, Ed is once again at the mercy of Oswald, a puppet manipulated. 

He cranes his neck and begins kissing, _mouthing_ , across Oswald’s chest as he strokes the hardness underneath his hand. _I’ve never done this before either,_ he marvels with a heavy heat rising to his cheeks. Ed shifts his hand back and forth, digits curling, tracing, mapping what lies beneath strained pants. Oswald twisting and arching into every ministration and Ed is utterly enraptured with the sight. _It’s beautiful, he’s beautiful._

“Take them off,” Oswald rasps and the sound draws Ed out of his mind, thoughts tugged along with it until the fingers working him disappear. _No, come back, please._ A whine escapes the back of his throat as he grinds down on Oswald’s uninjured leg, seeking out any source of friction in the absence of a warm palm. “Pants, Ed…I want to feel you properly.”

“Okay, okay…” Ed nods, lips parted. He can’t deny such a strong plea, not when it’s something he wants too. Kissing his way down Oswald’s stomach, Ed nips his protruding hipbone and quickly flicks his tongue across it, savouring the taste of Oswald’s skin as he kicks off his shoes. It’s a difficult process—he doesn’t want to draw away for even a mere second. He’s magnetized in his position, squirming about, trying to do everything with one hand whilst he balances himself on the other…but it’s not working, his pants too tight. With a huff Ed flops onto the mattress and digs in his heels, shoving himself up the bed.

“You too,” Ed whispers against Oswald’s lips and when a hand is threaded into his hair, he dives in for a quick, consuming kiss. Oswald licks into his mouth, tongue tracing the roof, leaving tingles in its wake and yet again Ed mind drifts away from his task so he can swallow down the groans pouring into him. They’re a delicacy, the sweetest and most _decadent_ thing he’s ever tasted. Ed wants to entwine them within his very being, hold them stasis in his lungs until they become a part of him forever. _Forever. Oswald said forever._ Slapping a hand down on Oswald’s shoulder, Ed encourages him to roll on his side, their bodies reconnecting across every seam. He rocks forward and on more than one occasion, knocks teeth with Oswald. A hunger, an unquenchable thirst is building again, clawing at Ed’s insides and Oswald is his oasis in the barrenness that was once his solitudinous life.

“I want—I want,” Ed pants, clawing at the front of Oswald’s trousers with unsteady hands, nails catching the ridges of his zipper. “I want to feel you.”

“Then do what I said,” Oswald pushes the words out past the haze of his mind, his voice so low he doesn’t recognize it, “ _and take off my pants._ ” He punctuates his point by tugging each heel out of his shoes, one after the other, using the toe as leverage, and flinging them across the room, reaching down to grab them and throw them when he gets frustrated.

Ed swallows thickly and shudders under Oswald’s gaze. It takes him a moment longer than expected to process Oswald’s words, before he follows the command and starts trying again to get Oswald undressed, his eyes shut, breath fluttering against Oswald’s face. It’s like Ed is barely _here_ when he seems caught in this shared rapture, and Oswald bends enough to kiss him again on the neck, stroking his fingers down Ed’s back, his palm sliding down his side. 

Oh, Oswald might have wanted to pull Ed into a darkened corner of that club and let the lust Ed was divulging to him during that hug run its course between them both, but how much better, how much sweeter, and hotter, and _life-changing_ it was to wait until they could be joined like this, in private, touching and tempting and _tasting_ , sober to enjoy it, riding an emotional high from their lengthy talk as so to _trust_ it.

Making no real progress due to what Oswald _joyfully_ recognizes, with a clench of his stomach, as Ed’s own nerves ( _another_ thing they both share, he realizes) make him fumble again. Despite Ed’s valiant efforts, Oswald reaches down to take charge. Using his hand to give a suggestive push, he flips Ed onto his back again and finishes his half-completed job from before.

Focusing despite Ed’s muffled keen, his hand over his mouth while Oswald tugs his trousers off, slowing down once he realizes his reckless eagerness to just get the damn job done might alarm Ed in its forcefulness. Craning up to look Ed over, the flush across his skin and spaced-out eyes behind fluttering lashes tell a _very_ different tale, one Oswald files away instantly. He wants to learn all of Ed’s secrets, his preferences, things he doesn’t even know about _himself_.

 _One thing at a time, Oswald_ , he reminds himself, giving both pant legs one final tug.

Edward smiles at him, still clearly dazed but still somehow also engaged. Oswald _devours_ the sight of Ed, roving his eyes over every inch of him, sprawled out so languidly, alluringly.

“Leave those on,” Oswald tells him, staring at his sock garters. _Ed wears sock garters._ Exactly how many fantasies of Oswald’s is Ed going to turn out to fulfill?

Blanching a little, Ed pulls a face, making his already-wide mouth wider. “But I—they’re not for bed…I never wear them to bed.”

“You won’t be sleeping,” Oswald reminds him, placing a palm down on either side of Ed as he stretches back out across him, hovering just a few inches above, so he can keep looking, studying, as he traces along ribs, mouths across Ed’s lean frame. “So leave them on,” he finishes, bunching Ed’s legs up so he can stroke his thighs while he bites down, dull, but hinting at more, along the muscle that runs from Ed’s shoulders to his neck.

“O-okay,” Ed _sobs_ , digging his nails into Oswald’s skin, grabbing him wherever he can get purchase. The pain in this context is a rush, knowing it’s because he’s unraveling Ed—he wants more of it. With a teasing kiss, rubbing lips against lips before pulling away, Oswald moans when he feels Ed’s completely hard again against his stomach—he wasn’t kidding that he wasn’t done. Reaching to slide Ed out of his boxers too, and see exactly how much more his lover can take, Ed slaps a hand against Oswald’s back, clasping at his shoulder, digging his fingers in. Removing the last barrier between Ed and nudity, Oswald stares him directly in the eyes, instead of looking at what he’s doing.

“N-no, Oswald, I want—I _want_ ,” Ed babbles.

“What do you want?” Oswald husks out, breathing hot against Ed’s skin, still staring at him.

Ed whines, not able to get the words out, and wiggles around a bit before pushing against Oswald’s chest. He catches on that it’s a request to flip back onto his side; Ed pushes him again once they’re there, and Oswald complies, laying on his back.

“Me too, I want—”

“ _Yes_ , Ed, finish,” Oswald cards a hand through his hair, heart seizing with fondness at the sight of Ed’s eagerness. “I want you, too,” he says. “I want there to be nothing between us,” he whispers.

Ed’s jaw quivers, quaking _almost_ as much as his entire body is. Small shivers and larger shudders consume him as he shifts atop of Oswald, filling the space between his splayed legs. He tries to peer down at Oswald, wanting to commit the image to memory but his eyelids are too heavy and his head fills with the weight of his arousal. He’s not the master of his own body, Ed realizes that, and although sight is virtually nonexistent, that doesn’t mean he can’t worship Oswald, cherish him, make him feel good.

Collapsing to Oswald’s chest, arms losing strength, Ed mouths his way across it, lips mapping every ridge and crevice. He has a plan, one he wants to see to fulfilment. Oswald's hands clutch his back, fingers pressing, nails biting as Ed takes Oswald's nipple in his mouth. His name is moaned and it washes over him, _through_ him, destabilizing his mind. _I can’t…focus._

“You taste—you are…” he mutters as he shifts lower from ribs to hips until his lips are brushing the hem of Oswald’s nettlesome trousers. “Need to take...these off,” he breathes as he hooks his unsteady fingers and tugs once… _twice_ …until Oswald is lifting his hips. With his eyes sealed shut, this time with nerves, Ed works the fabric, shifting back with it, until he is tossing the items over his shoulder into what he hopes is a non-retrievable abyss.

 _No barriers, no restrictions…only us,_ he thinks, kissing his way up Oswald’s ankle and calf, slowly working his way to the junction of his thighs. Only in his most wildest, fickle, and _delusional_ dreams did Ed ever see them meeting here. Fate and destiny have woven their threads yet again and Ed is thankful for the chance to _show_ Oswald what he means to him. _He’s my soulmate._ There’s no lesser descriptor.

Reaching the source of Oswald’s arousal, Ed snaps out of his daze. Through half-lidded eyes, he gazes up Oswald’s body, catching the sight of his flushed cheek and the way his chest heaves, rising and falling both rhythmically and irregularly. There’s not enough oxygen in the room, Ed knows this and it makes his head spin and eyes blur until his glasses aren’t able to counteract the shift.

“Where—how—can I…?” Ed struggles to speak his questions, yet Oswald hisses _yes_ so erotically in response that Ed need not finish explaining. The interlacing sensations derail a vast majority of his thoughts. It’s his apprehensiveness that gives him the slightest grasp of control. 

He trails his fingers up the innerside of Oswald’s thigh, perceiving, with intensifying focus, the way he shifts about, rucking up the comforter as his hips thrust against an empty space. _Is this what I looked like?_ Ed wonders, marvelling at the image before him. It’s titillating. Ed’s barely done anything, trepidation and timidity weigh heavier as the seconds tick by, and yet Oswald is reacting as if he has access to Ed’s thoughts and desires, anticipating actions that have yet to occur.

Ghosting his fingertips across Oswald’s _arousal_ , Ed swallows, sight dilating until the man lying before him splits into two. _What if I make a—_

“Touch me, Ed, please, just…” His wrist is grasped _firmly_ as it is drawn back to the apex of Oswald’s thighs and Ed caves, hopeless to deny him anything he wants. He curls his fingers and alternates between squeezing and caressing, discovering parts he has only dreamed about. In his chest, his heart flutters between each contraction, but it’s the _vision_ of Oswald, with his head thrown back, neck on display, gasping out wanton moans, that grants him the confidence to continue.

 _I’m doing this. I’m making him feel this way._ Angling his wrist Ed shifts his hand and Oswald falters, arching into the ministration.

“You’re beautiful,” Ed whispers, nudging his glasses up his nose. There are scars all over Oswald’s chest, stories Ed has yet to hear but he wants to kiss them all, suck out the poison people etched into him. _Later_ , he tells himself, _there’ll be time for that later._

With a slight repositioning, Ed settles his cheek on Oswald’s thigh and peppers kisses across his heated skin, lavishing him. His lips quiver again as they replace the spot where Ed’s fingers were wrapped. He’s read about this, researched it years ago but he never thought he’d be able to bring it into practice. Widening his jaw, Ed, _apprehensively_ , darts out his tongue and nabs a small taste of Oswald. The corresponding gasp ignites Ed’s curiosity. He wants to drown Oswald in ecstasy, make him feel and feel and _feel_ until he can think of nothing but the sensations Ed is eliciting.

With one last glance up Oswald’s body, Ed lowers his mouth down on him, groaning when a hand meets the back of his head.

Oswald sneaks one look at Ed, lips wrapped around him, slowly drawing his head back before diving back down, eyelids fluttering, a narrow glimpse of Ed’s brown eyes beneath them, and that _one look_ , that beautiful sight Oswald beholds is almost enough to do him in right then and there. Digging one hand into the comforter and his nails into Ed’s scalp with the other, Oswald shouts at the ceiling, practically reciting a list of curses between fast, shallow exhales, while Ed works, tongue and lips and the slight hint of _teeth_ overwhelming enough. Being surrounded by that heavenly, wet _heat_ —Oswald’s never felt anything better in his life, and in this moment, it feels easy to claim he never will, because there’s _no way_ he will survive this. No person, no human body can surely experience such pleasure and then continue on with life as if anything will ever be normal again.

Bending his bad knee doesn’t even hurt when he’s enraptured in ecstasy like this; Ed’s practically flush against his shin, and it’s not till the weight of Ed’s body settles down that he realizes a few things: his leg is under Ed, Ed’s hard _again, completely hard,_ and something about this combination prompts Ed to shuffle around, pulling Oswald’s leg straight, until Ed’s lying on top of it, and that, left to his own devices, Ed will start _fucking himself_ against any part of Oswald he can touch. His heart skips at least three beats while his eyes black out momentarily and his mind whites out, a staccato of static amidst the symphony of sensation.

“Fuck, _Ed_ ,” he moans, tugging Ed by the hair, as sharp as the way he bites the inside of his cheek when Ed moans around him in response, sharp as the involuntary bucking of Oswald’s hips as his eyes roll back and he whines, breathing out his nose. Ed _sobs_ , freezing up, and only then does Oswald realize he’s still thrusting up into Ed’s mouth, rolling his hips without thought, pinning Ed in place by clenching chunks of his hair between his fingers, which has to be painful.

Worry floods Oswald instantly, drowning out his commitment to basking in the indulgence of what’s going on. He tries to sit up, jerking his hand away and shoving his rear back into the bed, intending to pull away before he _hurts_ Ed with his eagerness and sheer mindlessness, lost in erotic hedonism, but he’s only met with a _very_ cranky-looking glare from Ed, who has stopped moving as well, before he grabs Oswald’s hand by the wrist and guides it back into his disheveled hair, grasping Oswald’s fingers painfully-tight, showing what he wants (and where he wants it…). He does the same to Oswald’s hips, holding them and _pulling_ Oswald back down.

Oswald laughs, flopping back against the bed; his cheeks tingle from how hard he’s blushing, face hot and vision still blurred around the edges, chest heaving as he catches on fast, trying a short pattern, a rhythm of shallow thrusts and carefully-timed _yanks_ to Ed’s soft, curling locks. He’s stubbornly bullshitting his way through maintaining any semblance of composure, which he knows Ed will undo in a flash—he doesn’t want this to end but he can’t help but _welcome_ the edge all at once.

Ed groans, long and hard, eyes slipping closed behind a fluttering of lashes as the sensitive strands of his hair are pulled taut by strong fingers. More so than the act itself, Ed savours the sensation of having Oswald in his mouth, and he listens _intently_ to the grunts and moans reverberating around him. Each choked sound evokes a shift of his hips and a curl of his tongue. One could say Ed covets the feelings which cycle through him and at that he’d ardently agree. It’s far beyond eroticism and passionate cumulations, but at the same time deeper, almost _intrinsic_.

He rocks himself against Oswald’s leg, both indulging in and savouring the feeling of his skin, the barrierless connection they _finally_ share and when the fingers tighten in his hair, Ed mewls around Oswald as his stomach tightens. _More. Again. Please._ Lost in the mindless haze that consumes them, they continue to shift and thrust into and against each other almost haphazardly, but beautiful in retrospect. Within the confines of Ed’s mind, words and descriptors of the immersive experience fire like synapses, resulting in a mismatched sentence full of synonyms that script the most beautiful and useless piece of poetry.

Ed can’t even grasp them for long, he’s too preoccupied with the litany of curses that are spilling into the heated air as Oswald delves in and out of his mouth…and _god_ does Ed want him deeper, to press through the barrier of his throat, to lose that carefully constructed control and set free that primal rawness that lies underneath. He knows it’s there, he can feel it bubbling, taste it.

Lifting his head, removing his mouth from where he wants it most, a fresh line of saliva trails down his saturated chin. Oswald whimpers and the noise is both beautiful and heartbreaking. Ed knows what he is feeling, that mindless burn that whites out every facet of a person, consuming them from the inside out… _like a pressure cooker,_ Ed surmises, nodding along to his thoughts.

“O-Oswald,” he croaks through a heavy breath. His eyes snap open as his fingers find his throat and Ed swallows against them, smiling sloppily out the corner of his mouth before trailing his gaze on the man before him. “Stop holdi— _gosh_ ,you’re stunning, breathtaking…I—” Oswald’s flushed, glistening skin almost shines in the shallow light of the room. It’s tantalising, _he’s tantalising_ and Ed moans from the image alone. Dropping his head, unable to fight against the action, Ed nuzzles Oswald, pressing open mouth kisses up and down him.

“Stop holding back,” he says pleadingly, tightening his hand over the one in his hair. “You don’t need to. You won’t hurt me.” Oswald gasps and groans and the sound tears through Ed as he lowers his mouth down on him, continuing until Oswald is buried in the back of his throat. He holds position for a few seconds, breathing sharply out of his nose, then removes himself again. “You can do that, i-if you want to…I _want_ you to.” Ed flushes as Oswald curses and he takes that as a sign to continue.

There’s no way Oswald can survive such a request, and also no way that he can ignore it. There’s so much he _wants_ to let go of, but so little left to hold on to in the moment. _Next time, next time,_ he tells himself. Running on pure instinct, he cups Ed by the back of the head and lets loose, only managing a few bold plunges into the delicacy that is Ed’s mouth, his _throat_ , with his own head thrown back as he comes with a _howl_.

Ed’s motionless for a moment, suspended in place, lips still wrapped around Oswald. Working through his initial shock, he seems to settle on swallowing, closing his eyes as he does so. He looks _peaceful_ in the aftermath, despite still straining against Oswald’s leg.

Stroking his hair and the sides of his face first, Oswald _drives_ his fingernails into Ed’s shoulder as he pulls him up to the middle of Oswald’s torso, as he rucks his leg under Ed again, more aware of brushing against him now that he’s not concentrated on his own burning, exquisite reactions under Ed’s touch. 

“Beautiful,” Oswald breathes, rubbing his thumb along Ed’s lower lip, brushing the pad over Ed’s teeth. He shouldn’t be surprised that Ed pulls it into his mouth, enveloping it in the now-familiar, delightful _warmth_ Oswald would happily call _home_. 

“Come, Ed, _finish_. I want you here with me, feeling this— _yes,_ ” he gasps when he feels Ed begin moving again, hardness slick against the soft inside of Oswald’s thigh. 

“You were marvelous, magnificent,” he praises, carding his hands through Ed’s locks over and over. “I want to give you everything you want but I want you to let go again, first,” he babbles, amazed he can even form words when his whole body tingles and his muscles are uselessly lax, but guiding Ed into another orgasm is his only goal, because the only delicacy sweeter than how Ed’s made him feel is to see how _he_ can make _Ed_ feel.

It’s not long at all until Ed’s mouth falls open, Oswald’s thumb still tucked in the side, and Ed screws his eyes up, flushes harder, and _mewls_ as he comes, keening almost turning to sobs as his second orgasm quakes through him. 

Oswald brushes strands of hair out of Ed’s face so he can behold the whole sight, every precious micro-expression flicking across Ed’s face as he steadies himself just enough to crawl back up Oswald and melt against him, his long limbs pooling as he rests his head on Oswald’s chest, smiling disjointedly. 

Numb with pleasure himself, Oswald rubs a palm down Ed’s back, alternating soft caresses and quick scratches, reveling in the way both make Ed’s eyelashes flutter in such uniquely distinct ways.

He wants to thank Ed, but instead, he blurts out, “What else do you want me to do to you?” He wants to hear every detail while Ed is this disarmed and blissed-out.

“Nothing and everything,” Ed says with a satisfied sigh as he nuzzles into Oswald’s chest. In the aftermath of his second release, his body tenses with small twitches, muscles becoming liquid-like, mind blissfully blank. “There’s still so much I want to do and _try,_ but first…can you _hold_ me? Can I stay here a moment longer?” Ed digs his toes into the comforter and weakly pushes himself up Oswald’s body a little more, breath hitching in the back of his throat at the oversensitivity he is feeling. Resting an ear over Oswald’s heart, Ed allows the steady thumping to lull him into a state of further contentedness as the shift is accepted with a deep hum of approval.

“Thank you,” he whispers, curling his arms around Oswald as the stroking resumes. Strong hands, the slightest hint of nails…Ed never wants it to stop. The soft affection is just as wholesome as their frantic consummations, both strikingly different, contrasting layers that make up what he hopes in the beginning of a long-lasting romantic relationship.

Settling his chin on the back of his hand, Ed peers up at Oswald over the top of his glasses and for a small segment of time, he observes him and the peaceful look on his face. Oswald’s makeup has smudged into delicate, mismatched blobs beneath curled lashes, which Ed’s fingers twitch to correct, but before he can make any such moves, their gazes connect and he smiles softly instead. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, rolling his head to the side. He never quite knows what’s ruminating on the inside of Oswald’s mind…and there’s excitement in the unknown, but there are times for clarity and times for puzzles. Even the smallest utterances can line a blank canvas with brushed strokes, slowly constructing a clear image and Ed wants that, longs to have their relationship defined in clear practical terms. One without misconstruction.

“Oswald—sorry, I know I just asked you a question…and you can still answer it, but _well_ , after tonight, after all this—” Ed drops his eyes and waves a hand through the air “—we’re _more than_ friends, right?” 

“There’s a logical fallacy there, Ed,” Oswald teases, smiling when Ed pouts and raises his eyebrows in response, face comically adorable in his confusion. “In order to ascertain whether we’re _more_ than friends now,” he explains, pursing his lips, “you’d have to admit that you already see us as friends—something you were remiss to decide on a few hours ago, as I recall.”

Laughing at how Ed gapes at him, Oswald drags Ed closer into the fold of his arms, shifting a little under the weight of Ed laying on top of him. It’s not an unpleasant pressure, but holding up Ed’s bonelessly relaxed frame will get uncomfortable soon enough without some re-arranging. Fulfilling another one of Ed’s requests is something Oswald is more than happy to do, and he holds Ed closer still, stroking his side and down the curve of his thigh.

“To answer you other question, I’m not thinking about anything, and it’s _wonderful_ ,” Oswald sighs, as Ed buries his face in his chest, his warm breath feathering across Oswald’s sternum—just enough sensation to elicit small shockwaves of familiar pleasure across Oswald’s very nerve again. “Well, anything but _you_ , that is. You’ve…ah, _thoroughly_ wiped my mind thanks to your _talents_ , and I must admit, while you are all I can think of, I can’t form any higher thoughts, but for you I’ll try.

“I’m not the kind of man who has an interest in taking a lover, you see,” he tries to explain, fully aware that he’s trying to hide the depth of raw emotion he feels under the safe distances of formality and humor. Ed’s words ring through his head again: _don’t hold back._

 _How I wish I could do that as easily as you ask it of me_ , Oswald thinks, tracing his fingers along the corner of Ed’s temple.

Seesawing his jaw back and forth as he considers how to phrase what he wants—no, _has_ to say, Ed clasps his hand on Oswald’s hip and fixes him with a stare, dark and serious. _Heaven knows what he thinks I’m on about,_ Oswald realizes, and barrels forward instead of hesitating more.

“What I’ve—I’ve waited y-years for,” _a lifetime for_ “is…a _beloved_ , someone that I can…can call mine, and I, his, _of course—_ ”

“Oswald…” Ed inhales, voice shaky, almost in warning of some impending discomfiting.

“M-my boyfriend,” Oswald swallows, petting Ed’s hair too quickly to even be calming, surely, but Oswald’s too nervous to still his hands. “If th-that’s something that…”

“I want?” Ed swallows thickly and nudges his crooked frames up his nose. In all likelihood he could easily do away with them now, as they’re only serving to be an uncomfortable nuisance, but their familiar comfort is something he needs. All this, Oswald and himself, is entirely new uncharted grounds, so Ed gathers strength from common objects. Fisting a hand in the rucked up comfortor, he tilts back his head so he can stare at Oswald without obstruction. “That’s what you’re saying— _asking_ , right? If I want to be your… _boyfriend?_ ”

“The answer, of course, is _yes_ , one thousand times over,” Ed says skipping forward, choosing to voice his words rather than let them stir in his mind. _It’s worked once tonight, perhaps it will do so again._ Oswald’s hand is still in Ed’s hair, fingers shaking. Clutching his wrist, Ed draws it down and entwines their fingers, absorbing the small vibrations through his palm rather than his skull.

“I said to you earlier that I wish to be yours but…well, we never really had the _chance_ to finish that conversation a-and I wanted to make sure—to double check that it wasn’t something said in the moment and that it didn’t arise due to the cocktail of oxytocin, serotonin, phenylethylamine, en—”

“Ed—”

“Sorry,” Ed apologizes, ducking his head. He buries his face in the crook of Oswald’s neck and breathes deeply, waiting for his mind to finish cycling through the list of hormones. When it has he sighs and gnaws on the innerside of his lip. “I want to make sure you’re certain about this—about _us_ and that it won’t be something—that _I_ won’t be something you decide you no longer want in a few days.” 

“ _Ed,_ ” Oswald counters, grabbing Ed’s wrist, as to pull their intertwined hands against his chest. He rubs his chin along the top of Ed’s head while he does the same with his thumb along Ed’s veins, feeling his pulse via his wrist. 

“I believe it’s safe to say the stage in my life where I was _done_ with you is long passed, or I wouldn’t have…have taken you to bed tonight if I felt I would not in the future, o-or change my mind in the future, or…” He’s stumbling, aware of it, and closes his eyes to lull his nerves. “I don’t know if you can begin to understand the magnitude of tonight’s… _ah_ …of _tonight_ for me, Ed.” _Sorry, Zsasz, but by all accounts, he’s my first, and after having this, I’ll never look back on our drunken occurrence again._

“If you fear that my sincerity is affected by _pleasure_ , then I’ll have to endeavor to reassure you of my affections when you deem me _believable_.” His voice teases but his heart’s overcome with the depths he’s fallen further and further for this man whose face is still buried in the crook of his neck. Words like _love_ and _soulmate_ crash around his mind but he dares not speak them, for fear of the same thing Ed’s concerned about—what if this was all just a mistake, or something temporary? It would be lovely if it lasted forever, he thinks, but it sounds too heavy to admit.

Oswald hasn’t let himself think in such lofty ideals in _years_. Already he perceives a further shift back into the parts of himself that he’d locked away in his attempt to transform into something else. Being secure in just Ed’s _presence_ is enough now to allow himself the alteration, for Ed has heard and _accepted_ the worst of Oswald, not judged him for it—in fact, it’s served to _humanize_ himself to Ed. It’s visible in every moment with Ed now, in his face, in his words, that he’s seeing Oswald as a multi-layered, fully dimensional _person_ and not an ideal that Ed elevated into place because of his own goals. He doesn’t hold Oswald in high esteem over _manners_ or some concept Ed made up outside a coffee shop—no, he elevates Oswald in value because he _cares_. Wholly and without distinction.

It was surely impossible to touch, to share, to _fuse souls_ together as they just had and deny the presence of deeper, indescribable feelings, for entire conversations that had passed between them in those moments caught in desire together.

One frantic, passionate coupling and already Oswald’s dramatically changed. How unbelievable to think that would even be possible, if he could at all warn his former self.

And the last thing he would want to do is warn.

“I mean everything that I said, Ed,” Oswald elaborates, realizing he’s been quiet a moment too long. “And until you believe me, well…I’m sure you’ll let me know when you do.”

Ed pulls his face back, glasses so askew they look bent. They’ve been digging into Oswald’s skin, but he’s left it alone, far too busy thinking about more important things. Besides…much like the sock garters, Oswald likes the look of them, of Ed in _nothing_ but glasses and his socks. “Oswald, I—”

“ _Shhh,_ ” Oswald presses his fingers against Ed’s mouth, and before he can prepare himself, Ed nips at his fingertips, then draws them in between his lips, tonguing along Oswald’s fingerprints. _That_ sends a jolt through Oswald that twinges deep in his belly, and judging by the coquettish look on Ed’s face, Oswald’s not alone in the resurgence of eroticism between them.

“Do you think you can go again?” Oswald asks softly, and Ed nods a little too quickly around his fingers, before wrapping his lips tightly in place. “Me too,” he croaks in response to the question he can sense Ed would have asked. Forget talking—they can do that later.

Pushing Ed onto his back, Oswald sinks his fingers into that warmth he so cherishes now, and Ed hums around the further intrusion, eyes closed in contentment. “Get them wet,” he tells Ed, sitting up, not even sure what he plans to do next, as his mind floods with possibilities and ideas. 

He runs his free hand down Ed’s side, urging him to bend his knee so he can hold his leg, wanting to kiss parts of him he hadn’t reached yet. Their movements shift from almost slow and lazy to electrifyingly intense and forceful, and by the time Oswald drapes Ed’s leg over his shoulder and withdraws his fingers, Ed’s driving his heel into Oswald’s back, the woolen material of his socks scratching his skin as Oswald wraps his wet fingers around Ed’s spent member, just to reveal in the keen of overstimulation Ed cries out in response, eyebrows scrunched and eyes screwed shut.

Slapping his hands down, Ed clutches the blankets, breath strangled when Oswald begins to touch and explore him with focused determination. He briefly wonders—as he twists and gasps with Oswald’s hand working him, drawing him back into his previous state of rapture—what limitations his body has. It’s not like he’s done much exploration into the matter. Physical pleasure isn’t something he’s chased before. Yes, he indulged here and there (more so in recent times) but it was the _mental_ proclivities: outsmarting people, proving his cleverness and cunning, that brought him the most satisfaction…until now.

Grunting as Oswald tightens his wet fingers, Ed is dancing—toying the line between pain and pleasure. Each shift threatens to topple him over both sides simultaneously, but he holds firm on the thin wire, with the flames of hedonism licking the soles of his feet, waiting to greet him. 

“O-Oswald, I— _ah…oh gosh.”_

Sensitivity is something he is accustomed to dealing with, fabrics have to feel right, food has to blend perfectly, but this recently developed sexualized stimulation is unparalleled. 

Pain has never been something Ed shies away from, so he instinctively thrusts up into Oswald’s fist and shoves his head into the mattress. Lifting one hand, he tugs on the strands of his hair and pants heavily into his wrist. “I know, I know,” he whimpers, struggling to speak as he nears full hardness for the…Ed’s lost count how many times he has been in this state tonight. Three, four, _more?_ Does it ever end? _I don’t want it to._ It’s unabashedly tantalising, bridging closer to overwhelming. “I know,” he repeats. “You, me, _us._ ” The last sound elapses seconds as Oswald’s thumb circles slowly and Ed bites his bottom lip to keep his crude exclamations at bay. Vulgar remarks are not something he resorts to but if there was ever a time…

“ _Please,_ Oswald,” he begs, digging his heel into Oswald’s back in an effort to encourage him closer, to move faster, to stop slowing his hand. He’s too far away, almost unreachable. Ed snakes down a hand, with the other still fisted in the strands of his hair, and brushes his fingertips against Oswald’s knee.

“It’s fine,” Oswald answers Ed’s unspoken question. For all the errors and hurdles they have in communication, it astounds him how well they converse now that sex is the medium they employ for their conversation. Ed fixes his glossed-over eyes on Oswald’s, mouth agape, hand still bawled up in his own hair. “Really, I’m fine,” Oswald reassures him, as he shifts his weight into Ed’s palm to accentuate the point.

Every place where the bones in his leg broke throbs out pain when he moves like he just had, and his kneecap crackles a sharp sting out that radiates down to his toes. He couldn’t begin to explain if he _tried_ that while not a conventional pain-killer by any means, the blissful warmth of how _good_ and how _thoroughly_ Ed sucked him off is the only real and natural relief from the ever-present agony Oswald’s experienced since the damage was done on the day of the fateful attack.

 _As if Ed wasn’t already addicting enough_ , Oswald considers.

No, the reason Ed is addicting is because of the way his chest rises and falls, his narrow torso rolling along with Oswald’s carefully-rough movements along Ed’s length. His breathy, high voice. The mumbling, _pleading_ , nonsensical statements he blurts out while Oswald kisses his ankle, moving down Ed’s leg and up his torso in a hurry, desperate to get back to his mouth so he can shove Ed’s arm out of his face and swallow some of Ed’s sobs while they kiss.

With his free hand, he trails his fingers across Ed’s ass, kneading and clutching the perfect curve of his backside before tracing a finger lightly up the cleft. His touch is feather-light, almost nonexistent, and yet Ed _tremors_ as he does it, full-body _quakes_ taking him over as Oswald repeats the motion with more intention this time, Ed biting back what sounded like a curse, puffing out his breath in a strangled exhale instead.

Oswald’s half-hard just from watching the display, again already overcome from simply touching Ed, reveling in being the reason Ed comes undone, a beautiful gift that Oswald assumes by now is only something seen by _him_ alone. He digs his fingers into the meat of Ed’s rear again and focuses his attention back on his hand.

“Have you touched yourself like this before?” he asks Ed, gripping him a little tighter, dragging the pad of his thumb almost too slowly, slicking him up more with what he’s already leaking. Ed, as red in the face as Oswald assumes he must be himself, too, if the heat he feels across his cheeks is any indicator, nods furiously.

Letting his hand drift back to the center of Ed’s rear, he drags two fingers up his center this time, diving in the smallest amount, enough to make Ed buck and shout, rocking his hips against nothing. “And here?” Oswald asks, but Ed thrusts forward again instead of replying, his head lolled back, face buried in the crook of his own elbow.

“ _Ed,_ ” Oswald removes his hands, and Ed cries out. “Pay attention, Ed, you didn’t answer my question.” Maybe he needs to be more direct. Leaning down, he breaths hot and wet against the side of Ed’s face and neck before he speaks. “Have you ever fingered yourself?”

“Uhuh, uhuh, _uhuh_ ,” Ed answers rapidly, twisting and jerking against Oswald. “Good,” Oswald responds, swallowing down his own dizziness. He’d fantasized about it before and having his fingers in Ed’s mouth confirmed it—he _wanted_ to touch Edward from _inside_ , so badly he could think of nothing else. “Because I want to do that to you myself, if-if you’ll—”

Ed _whines_ , reaching blindly for Oswald’s hands, somehow blabbing soundlessly now. “Okay, okay good,” Oswald kisses him again, deeply, trying out something new with how quickly he moves his tongue between Ed’s lips, and Ed clings to him in appreciation while they frantically confirm and consume each other’s lust for each other, both of them moaning until Oswald draws back to kneel as he was before.

“I need…in order to do this I…” he starts, closing his eyes while he simply feels Edward, exploring him with his hands. Ed either doesn’t pick up on that unspoken question, or he didn’t hear him. A flash of something Oswald’s only starting to identify courses through him and he reacts without prior planning.

Slipping his hand back around Ed’s length again, he draws up and down him slowly, keeping Ed hovering. “Ed, pay attention,” he requests, “I can’t do this without some lubricant; do you have any?” 

Ed only heaves a gasp in response, eyes flying open before fluttering shut again. Oswald grips him tighter and squeezes, pulling Ed through his fist in a way that hopefully edges just on the side of _painful_ Oswald wants right now. 

“Concentrate, Ed,” Oswald commands, voice darker and sharper than he’s heard himself use before. “Answer the question.” He must have some if he’s done it to himself before, and oh, that’s something Oswald _needs_ to see for himself later—

“Yes in the drawers in my dresser on the left side the kitchen side the third drawer in the back over there,” Ed stumbles out the nonsensical words in a rush, before tugging his glasses off and burying his face in his forearm. Little sobs fall out from his lips as he reaches to clutch Oswald’s forearm, his hand sweaty and shaking.

Oswald bends down to kiss up Ed’s arm, cooing and soothing him with his voice between kisses. He has to get off the bed to find the bottle Ed’s hidden, which is awkward because Oswald is _painfully_ hard again now, and the last thing he wants to do is to have any extra space between him and Ed right now.

His mind whites out as he walks through the steps he knows he needs to, ones he’d even tried once with himself (to no grand success). Stroking his free hand down Ed’s flank, he pulls his leg up and kisses his knee while he circles around Ed’s entrance before slipping the tip of his finger inside, working him slowly and gently, barely able to keep his own eyes open as he drowns in the sounds Ed’s making, lost in the warmth emanating from _every_ inch of Ed. He rubs himself against the inside of Ed’s soft thigh, talking to Ed about nothing he can even consciously recall as he plans the build-up to sliding another finger in, working on letting Ed adjust around him before he seeks out the place inside Ed that will bring all of this to an end quicker than Oswald wants.

Ed’s arms criss-cross over his face and he tugs at his hair as Oswald sets to unravelling him from the inside out with every press and crook of his finger. _Oh god, oh god._ His spine curves and his mouth is locked open, spilling a jumbled mix of sounds which are almost barbaric for they make such little sense. Despite being well versed in the song his body sings, this feels _completely_ new. Having Oswald inside of him, even with something as small as a finger, sets Ed on fire and he’s already surrendering to it.

“O-Oswald,” Ed moans, hips shifting in an attempt to speed up the process. It’s too slow, too controlled, there’s too much thought involved. For the first time in his life, Ed wishes for the ability to disappear, for them to only _feel_ , for actions to respond to the hitches in their breaths and other wordless sounds. Not thought. _I need…I need—_

“ _More_ , please, _please_ ,” he begs as he peers down between the space in his arms, watching Oswald watch him. “More,” he pleads, chest heaving, as he slides a hand down his body and nabs Oswald by the arm, curling his fingers tightly. “God, _Oswald_ ,I need— _fuck_.”

Ed tenses and shudders when a second finger enters him, and with a turn of his head he bites down on the skin of his inner arm, locking his jaw in a painful pinch. The slow, drawn-out pace has shifted into something more desperate and Ed curses around his clenched teeth, rocking his hips haphazardously as Oswald drives his digits forward. “ _Ah_ , yes… _f-fuck_ …harder…”

It’s undoubtedly salacious the way Oswald can control him now, with a mere crook of his fingers Ed is overcome with a myriad of sensations, each and every one so intense Ed struggles to breathe. _There’s only one thing that could be better than this._

With that thought burning in his mind, Ed tightens his legs around Oswald and drags him forward so suddenly that Oswald has no choice but to collapse on top of him. The added weight drives Ed’s next move; he moans as he thrusts up against Oswald’s stomach and down into the digits still buried within him and when he has his feet locked around Oswald’s rear, he arches forward to kiss him.

“Fuck me,” he demands wantonly, between each press of his lips. “Fuck me, _please_. I want to feel you…not just your fingers.”

Oswald’s jaw drops as his mind is utterly blacked-out, trying to process Ed’s wish. Before anything else, he sinks into their kissing, cutting Ed off as he bites at his mouth, moaning his assent directly _into_ Ed, their open mouths connecting them. Without the ability to even _think_ now that his body has caught up, Oswald drags Ed’s arm away from his head again, catching sight of the inside of his arm (he can’t believe Ed _bit himself_ ) before Ed catches his mouth again, nipping at his lips.

Lifting Ed’s arm around his body, he shows Ed where he wants his touch (down his back, along his scalp), all while still quietly stroking in and out of him, reveling in the litany of increasingly-desperate and demanding variants of Ed’s last sentence falling out of his mouth, between hungry kisses and each of their groans. Again and again Ed begs, lyrics punctuating the beautiful song of enraptured pleasure Ed’s been unconsciously singing for him since they started acting on this new devotion.

Slapping his hand flat against Oswald’s back while Oswald teases the introduction of a third finger, Ed drives his nails between Oswald’s shoulder blade and spine. Oswald hisses at the pain; surprisingly, he _loves_ it. It’s tangible proof of how far gone Edward is, and Oswald savors that it’s _him_ who is making Ed turn wild like this, that it’s his power and control that shapes the ability to play Ed as though he were an instrument. Pulling back to sit on his haunches so he can retrieve the bottle again, Ed tightens his legs’ grip like a vice, holding Oswald in place. He slaps Oswald’s back again, rolls his head and _wails_ , “No! No, no, no, _no!_ Oswald, _please!_ ”

Oswald’s heart leaps so fast he swears he almost feels the muscle hit the back of his own throat. Scrambling to remove himself from Ed completely, he cries, “Ed, god, I’m _sorry_ , what did I do, I’ll stop immedi—”

“ _No!_ ” Ed complains again, eyebrows flying up, holding Oswald against him with two hands and his legs clenching together even _harder_. “ _Don’t_ , please don’t stop, I—Oswald, _please_ , please, please, _f-fuck_ , please, you haven’t—” Ed swallows loudly, panting quickly, still struggling for words, “you haven’t _answered_ me, I—I need to _understand—_ ”

“Are you _sure_ you want me to fuck you?” Oswald asks; the sentence sounds silly in comparison to the conflict of warring emotions he’s trying to sort through in the moment.

“ _Yes!_ ” Ed all but screams, head thrown back. Slinging his arms around Oswald so tightly that Oswald can’t budge an inch, Ed continues babbling as Oswald sags in relief.

“I want that too, Ed, I— _god_ , Ed, this—” _it’s all so much for one night, I didn’t expect this, I want to make sure you’re okay, god I want you, I want to be inside you:_ all the things Oswald could say but can’t force out of his chest circle through his thoughts.

He kisses where his lips can reach, strokes down Ed’s chest and side where his hand can reach. 

Since Ed has his face crushed and pinned on its side against Oswald’s ribs, he’s caught in the most uncomfortable of poses and while he doesn’t intend on staying here, he’s happy to be clung to so intensely, to be needed so _badly_ in so many, many ways. 

“You have to let go,” he asks gently, and Ed relaxes a little, hiccupping when Oswald rolls off of him. “Don’t say _no_ like that unless you want me to stop touching you,” he adds, for that’s a rule he needs established.

Ed’s returned to hiding behind his arm. “Never stop, Oswald,” Ed responds, his voice muffled but his eyes shine dark, even in the lack of light.

After taking a moment to bask in the sight of Ed again, Oswald returns to his original plans. Between applications of more lube and alternating between slow drags of his hand along Ed’s length and soft kisses along the outlines of Ed’s bones, collar and ribs protruding from under the skin of his slender frame, Oswald switches gears and tugs Ed down by the wrist, drives his fingers in deeper, hooks them sharply as he licks across one of Ed’s nipples, nibbling at the sensitive skin until he hears a distinct sound come from Ed that he doesn’t _expect_ , a sound he’s already heard before.

Lifting his head to inspect, Oswald sees the clear tracks of tears strewn across Ed’s cheeks, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he turns to crying harder, face hidden in his forearm again. He’s kept his other hand buried in Oswald’s hair through all of this preparation, and he holds onto the back of Oswald’s head a bit tighter as another _actual_ sob wracks his body, fresh tears sliding down in its wake.

“Ed? Ed! Oh no, not again,” Oswald gulps, scared to see another confusing reaction from Ed twice in such a short timeframe, and broken-hearted to see Ed cry in front of him again. They can stop immediately, Oswald’s never been so hard in his _life_ and he’s leaking so much he can feel the sticky mess he’s made against Ed’s thigh, but _none_ of that matters if Ed is driven to _tears…_

“Ed? What’s wrong? Explain,” Oswald asks, voice broken, tears springing to his own eyes in an instant. He’s frozen in place, except for the thumb he traces along Ed’s hairline, trying to soothe him. Ed did say to keep touching him and he…he doesn’t know what else to _do_ until Ed explains.

“ _Oswald,_ ” Ed sobs through a shaky breath and his body quakes, rattling from his head to his toes. “I don’t—you don’t—n-nothing…”

Removing his arm from his face, Ed ignores the wetness streaked across his cheeks. It’s not the first time he has cried in front of Oswald but it is for _this_ reason. _How do I explain that? Will he think me…weird?_ he wonders as Oswald peers down at him, confused and concerned. _He doesn’t understand._ The tears collecting in Oswald’s eyes tug at Ed’s heart; he never wants to see such a sight, especially during what was, and _could_ continue to be a transcendent moment. Ed opens his and closes it again when his words die on his tongue. The cloud of cotton that has become his mind is heavy and Ed wants to dive back into it, to lose himself to Oswald, to _bliss_.

Drawing Oswald in close, Ed peppers kisses to his freckles, moving up and over the bridge of his nose. “It’s good, you’re good— _great_ , and I—I feel… _everything_. P-please don’t stop,” he cries, digging his heels into Oswald’s rear, “don’t _ever_ stop. Make me feel. I need it, I need _you._ ”

“I need you too,” Oswald admits, tears falling as Ed keeps sweetly kissing his face. He slips away from the touch, only so that he can do the same to Ed’s face, mirroring him. It suddenly feels odd being inside Ed the way he currently is, and he withdraws his fingers slowly, ready for something else. They keep taking turns kissing as Oswald prepares himself, suspended in the moment together, the tears becoming normal, becoming erotic in and of themselves, the two of them already stripped down to the level of being nothing more than souls bonding, without any hesitation. 

They gravitate back to each other’s mouths, lips rubbing against each other and the kisses continue, unplanned, uncoordinated, and unending, until they’re sharing and exchanging the same as Oswald enters Ed, both of them shuddering, taking it slow as they both adjust, step-by-step.

Ed tosses his head back and lifts a hand to his mouth, biting down on his knuckles, muffling the low, drawn-out keen he makes as Oswald fully seats himself inside Ed. 

“Stop hiding,” Oswald croaks, reaching to pull Ed’s hand away, “I want to hear you, _see you,_ ” he explains, threading his fingers between Ed’s, locking palm-against-palm, against the bed, pushing into their hands' embrace as Oswald experiments with the first slow withdrawal and rock back into Ed. Ed’s driving his fingers into Oswald’s back again, scratching and clawing mindlessly, as Oswald eases into establishing a motion for the both of them. A fresh batch of tears and babbling from Ed spurs Oswald on, and after Ed _shoves_ his heels into Oswald’s lower back, he starts fucking Ed in earnest, pulling the hand he had digging into Ed’s hip up to his waist to guide him through the thorough pace he’s settling.

Like everything they’ve done tonight, it feels as if it’s lasting forever, but it’s only short moments, both of them unaccustomed, inexperienced, and too eager for every touch. _It took actually fucking him for me to see we’re completely the same,_ Oswald thinks, dropping his forehead to rest against Ed’s while he thrusts vigorously, body taking over, need controlling him, controlling them both.

Ed is so tight, so warm, so _beautiful_ , in feeling, in taste and touch and sight, in soul, in Oswald’s _possession_ like this, the trust it takes for him to give himself over, the trust it takes for them _both_ to share this—

Oswald can’t even form words, can’t begin to explain all the things he wants to; he’s aware it’s not only Ed who is making the discordant symphony of noises around them, for Oswald is adding to it himself, though he has no idea what he’s saying or uttering, too lost in sensation, lost in Ed. Every second he continues to last is a blessing, but he’s running short on time, his body hitting its limits. He can’t stave off the relief that giving into the culmination of pleasure that’s building in every nerve ending along his body is working towards, and judging by the pained look on Ed’s face, he’s far from alone. Ed bits down on his lower lip, breathing hard and fast through his teeth, clenching Oswald tightly _everywhere_.

“Don’t hold back,” Oswald reminds him, clutching their intertwined hands so strongly he feels his bones creak. “I’m going to do it too, do it with me, come on, _come_ ,” Oswald tells him, feeling the prickle across his skin start already at the words he’s spoken, at the hitch in Ed’s breath.

“ _Come,_ ” he repeats, eyes closed, breathing in Ed, moving in him, holding him, stroking him, his mind nothing now but a loop of _Ed, Ed, Ed_.

“Oh…I, _ungh._ ” Every muscle in Ed’s body contracts and an inescapable pressure rises within him as he surrenders to Oswald’s gentle command. There is no possible way he can restrain from doing so, not with the way Oswald shifts inside of him, melds with him, connects so _deeply_ Ed is sure he’ll carry remnants of him forever. Arching into the next thrust, Ed throws his head back in a silent scream, or perhaps he _is_ screaming, for when his orgasm takes hold Ed is no longer aware of his body’s movements, only the sensations pouring in and out of him, only _Oswald_.

In his ear, Oswald’s grunts sound and the slaps of their slickened bodies echo through the heated air. It’s unbelievable, chaotic, superlative beyond all description. His free hand claws at Oswald’s shoulder, back and arm, while his other clasps Oswald’s tightly and for the third time that night, Ed spills himself, spasming violently. Tears stream down his face and heat bursts and blossoms, radiating from the depths of his heart. He clutches Oswald, _his lifeline_ , firmly and his ears ring as he is carried off into the immersive waves of euphoria.

Oswald manages three more sporadic thrusts, shifting deeply, before he stills, shudders and subsequently falls flat against Ed, huffing out little whimpers which entwine with Ed’s own. Despite the weight on his chest, Ed feels comfortable, content, _whole_. The two of them lie still for a matter of minutes, a mix of sweat, panted breaths and hammering beats of their hearts are shared back and forth as they greedily suck in all the oxygen in the room.

Slowly coming back to himself, Ed peers at Oswald through hooded eyes and cards a hand through his disheveled hair, drinking in the utter peace etched into Oswald’s features. His freckles shine over the glow in his cheeks, his eyelashes flutter as his eyelids twitch. Oswald’s lips are parted and he may or may not be drooling over Ed’s chest and to Ed there is nothing grander, more _beautiful_ than Oswald in this very moment.

“Oswald?” Ed begins softly, as he slips on his glasses before resuming his gentle caressing, trailing his fingertips up and down the length of Oswald’s back. “Would it be odd or…or _uncouth_ of me to say that I like sex, because _wow_. Sex is wow. You’re—”

“Wow?”

Biting his lip, Ed nods. “Mhmm. _Very_ wow. I loved it. I—” Eyes widening behind smudged lenses, Ed snaps his jaw closed and smiles tight-lipped. It’s too soon to speak such blatant words of love… _isn’t it?_ _Well, no, no it’s not_ , he answers himself, yet his mouth remains sealed. _Perhaps now is not the right time._

From his place on Ed’s chest, Oswald peers up at him with unspoken questions dancing in his brows. Ed can’t answer them, not now, not until he is prepared. There are better ways to divulge his feelings than randomly blurting them out without thought. Oswald deserves something special, _memorable_. Ed wants that, too. If he’s going to do this, it needs to be right.

The noise of the morning traffic highlights Oswald’s quietude. _Is he waiting for me to speak—to finish speaking?_ The hushed stillness continues to stretch between them and Ed grows unsettled. Silence and Ed are as incompatible as water and oil—they rarely ever blend together perfectly. Even if the moment doesn’t call for it, he can’t help but speak. 

“It’s dawn,” he comments uselessly, nudging his glasses up his nose. “You’re staying, right?”

Oswald waits one more second to see if Ed plans on speaking more—Oswald was being a fool, letting his heart race like it was. Why did he think Ed had more to say? _Hasn’t enough happened tonight that was already more than you ever expected would come to pass? Despite how eager he seems, he isn’t going to blurt that out, and why would he? Even you’re hesitant to say it out loud, to say it so soon._

Tired of momentarily arguing with himself, Oswald lifts up on his elbows to capture Ed’s mouth in a kiss. There’s something intimately profound about the fact that he’s _still inside_ Ed and Ed hasn’t indicated he expects Oswald to withdraw anytime soon. As Oswald sucks on Ed’s tongue, Ed whimpers, as if in response to the statement Oswald’s making but hasn’t spoken. It feels like they’ve formed their own loop, emotions flowing back and forth through the closed circuit between them, which is the same effect those words would have had, anyway. It’s a substitution, but it’s no less heartfelt; _I hope you know that, Ed…I hope you can feel it._

Ed pants when Oswald breaks their kiss. He lies still for a few minutes with his eyelids twitching, fluttering his eyelashes, but never breaking open. Raising his head off the bed, he trails the thread connecting him to Oswald, seeking out the taste of his lips, only to flop down with a crooked smile when weariness claims him. 

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” he teases and Oswald chuckles in affirmation. “Feel free to answer all my questions like that.”

Lifting shaking hands, Ed blindly reaches out for Oswald, trailing his fingers down the sides of his face, over the bridge of his nose and across the curve of his lips, memorizing him, memorizing this moment in every possible way. All their shared touches, each swipe of their lips and slip of their bodies spoke words that cannot be read on a page. It is—as Ed is pleasantly discovering—a distinctly _indescribable_ feeling. 

“Thank you,” he whispers though a satisfied sigh, which swiftly transforms itself into a highly anticipated yawn.

“Time for bed, Ed,” Oswald says as he drops his lip to Ed’s palm. “I think I’ve kept you up long enough for one night.”

“I could stay awake with you forever, but sleep—yes.” Ed doesn’t protest when Oswald withdraws from his body, however, he does pout. He was more than content with the idea of them staying… _connected_ while they slept, he wouldn’t have minded it one bit but as he cracks open his eyes and watches Oswald struggle to scoot up the mattress, leg stiff, he realizes it might not have been the best idea.

“Here.” Ed nabs one of the pillows and gently places it under his knee, fluffing both ends. “This should help…or maybe it won’t, but keeping it elevated wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he rambles, tossing his glasses onto the nightstand before drawing the comforter over them as he melds himself against Oswald’s side. Ed hums in approval when Oswald winds an arm around his shoulders and swipes his fingers back and forth in small even strokes. There’s no more than needs to be said between them as the gentle comfort they now share says everything.

Yawning into Oswald’s chest, Ed huddles in closer and begins to silently construct the perfect riddle in the back of his mind, one meant solely for the man who has bewitched his heart.

~~~

Waking up has never been something Ed struggles with. No, his issues lie on the opposite end of the spectrum. Sleep, _sleep_ is what often evades him. For many years he has lived his life sleeping as little as possible, not solely because he has sweeping issues to address and schemes to enact, but due to his very nature, the way his mind turns and spins, constructing and dismantling ideas and structures simultaneously as he stares into the cracks age marked into his ceiling. The familiar comfort of his covers is rarely something he craves, unless the situation demands it, that is until he finds Oswald softly snoring beside him. Shuffling in closer with a smile tweaking his lips, Ed creates indistinct patterns across Oswald’s chest. Moments such as these, ones of peace and serenity, a calm interlude where he can exist in part, are to be treasured for they _never_ last long.

Ed groans as the familiar buzz of his phone reaches his ears, a sound he now realizes in the source of his premature awakening. He slaps a hand against his face and hastily knocks away the miniscule evidence of sleep out of his eyes. _Why is someone calling this early in the morning? Don’t they have any sense of decorum, propriety?_ It is beyond unacceptable.

Begrudgingly, Ed musters up the strength to move, to separate himself from Oswald. It is a task far more difficult than he assumed; his muscles protest every small shift, feeling both weighted and weightless after the night’s… _activities_ , but as the ringing of his phone grows in volume, Ed is forced to act faster. After all, the _last_ thing he wants to see is Oswald waking, not when he looks so content.

The cool morning air licks Ed’s exposed skin and the small hairs on his body stand on edge. Stumbling about, he blindedly digs through the strewn about clothes for his phone, muttering his frustrations under breath. _I should have cleaned up last night. The place is a shambles._

“This better be important,” he snaps into the mouthpiece without checking the caller ID. There is no doubt in his mind who is on the other end.

_“Eddie! That took you a while, I thought I was going to go to voicemail. What are you doing?”_

Chipper, excitable Kristen is something Ed cannot handle in his current state. She’s the reason he’s standing nude in the middle of the room, shivering with his eyes half closed. “Without fingers I point, without arms I strike, without feet I run. What am I? Kristen, do you have any idea what time it is? I’m _sleeping_ …or I _was._ ”

_“It’s...almost noon? Thank you for not making me answer that, by the way. You know, you never sleep in. Mister Eddie got too drunk, hmm?”_

“Something like that…” Ed mutters, catching the sight of movement in the corner of his eye. Strolling his way back to Oswald, Ed kicks the scatters clothes into a small pile before he slips back under into Oswald’s warm embrace. “ _Good morning,_ ” he mouths, listening half heartedly to Kristen rambling in his ear.

_“Well, welcome to the club. Have another drink, it helps. Anyway, I’m coming over to see you, there’s so much I need to tell you about—”_

“No!” Ed exclaims, heart racing. Oswald tenses beside him and Ed grimaces, face crumpled, in silent apology. “I— _ah_ …no. Not today. Can this wait?” _Please tell me this can wait._

_“…Why not? You’re not doing anything, you’re never doing anything…oh my god. Oh my god, Ed, you didn’t seriously—is someone there?”_

“Yes—no… _maybe.” Did she drink so much that she has forgotten the events of the previous night?_ Ed rolls his eyes and exhales sharply. _It wouldn’t be the first time_. “I can hear your mind turning, Kristen, _shush_. _Yes,_ someone is here. Do I need to explain _who_ or is that enough information?”

 _“I—I didn’t think—think that he’d actually…wow. You and Wally the Penguin!”_ The sound of Kirsten’s tongue clicking worms through the receiver: small habitual actions she displays when she drops into deeper thoughts. In her silence, Ed pecks a kiss on Oswald’s chin and raises his brow at the expression on his face. “ _Good god, Ed, I can’t believe—I can’t—you know what…good for you, Eddie, I’m happy for you. I know you said you feel he’s the one, after all. I’ll just pop by later so he has time to leave.”_

“Thank you, Kristen. I appreciate the sentiment…but _please” don’t tell me Oswald heard that_ “don’t come around without checking with me first. I’m not…and Oswald—just let me know an hour beforehand, _okay?_ ”

Kristen sighs. Ed can quite easily picture the expression that is passing across her face: downcast eyes, bottom lip jutted, head bowed. To upset her is the last thing he wants to do, but with Oswald in his bed, certain… _boundaries_ need to be put in place. Unfortunate circumstances tend to have a habit of surprising Ed at the best of times and Ed highly doubts this is an image Kristen would favor seeing. 

_“That’s fair, Eddie. That’s fair, you’re right. It’s going to take me awhile to get used to not being able to come over whenever I feel like it, we’ve always been like that—”_

“Hey, what are you—” Ed protests when Oswald grabs the phone, placing it to his own ear.

“Ed says _goodbye_ , he’s coming back to bed, he’ll be busy the rest of the afternoon, so, good day, Miss Kringle!”

Ed nabs Oswald’s wrist before he can snap the phone closed and he babbles out hasty goodbyes. “B-bye, Kristen. I promise I’ll call you later.”

With the call swiftly ended and the phone tossed to ends unknown, Ed flops down atop of Oswald’s chest and pouts. “That’s not going to win you any favours with her,” he says, breaking into a smile seconds later.

“I saved her _life_ , my dearest,” Oswald reminds him, smirking before he scoffs lightly, nothing caustic in his intent. “It would take a lot more than my attitude to change the score between us.” He pets Ed’s hair, slipping back into a soft smile easily. He’s never woken up in bed with someone this way before, and he doubts it’s only novelty that makes it so precious.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” he asks Ed, faintly running his fingernails along Ed’s scalp. “Oh, if we are, I need my phone first.” He meant what he told Kringle on the phone—for a flash, he wanted to roll his eyes that she used his old, cursed nickname from when he worked for Aubrey James, because of _course_ karma had to pay him back for him snooping into her files, when clearly she’d gathered intel on him the same way. 

That thought made _Ed_ more endearing, Oswald realizes, because Ed never learned anything about his past until he shared it himself. Oswald hadn’t forgotten about the pathetic attempts at _stalking_ him that Ed had made, but he’d always known, despite his resentment of it, that he’d be remiss to blame Ed for being less-than-above-board when Oswald has such an atrocious, amoral past himself.

 _All of that is bygones now, I suppose, now that I’ve chosen to take him as my boyfriend._ The thought makes him smile wider, makes the ache all over his muscles less stinging for a bright second.

In the time he’s been thinking to himself, Ed’s hopped out of bed and brought Oswald his phone, after rummaging around for it. Holding it in both hands, he presents it to Oswald, as if it were a treasured, beloved possession, instead of a device Oswald mostly loathes having to own. There’s always been something oddly gentle and reverent in how accommodating Ed’s behavior naturally veers; Oswald relates to the strange juxtaposition between both of their soft and sharp sides, loving and yet marred with violence in the past, given and received.

He takes the phone from Ed with a loving smile and flicks it open to begin texting. Fish has been promising him time off for ages now, and he plans to take it. Leaving Ed’s side is something he has _little_ interest in doing for _some time:_ not after the taste he’s gotten last night for the dripping _decadence_ of having Ed in bed with him…

 _Fish_ , he begins typing, carefully counting each number of times he has to press the number buttons on the phone’s keypad to make the letter change on screen. _I will not be in today, or this week,_ he works on typing, having to back up a few times when he fumbles and miscounts. Texting is so tedious, but it’s better than a phone call—they could be humorous and frank with the woman who is essentially Ed’s sister, but Fish, despite his own non-blood familial ties, is still his _boss_. It’s best to exercise caution in how he informs her of his sudden sabbatical.

Ed watches him with those intense, familiar doe-eyes, but there’s something clearly crackling under the surface of Ed’s skin, as he sits with crossed legs and the sheets pooled in his waist, Oswald across from him, back against the bed frame. Looking at him briefly a few times over the top of the phone, he keeps typing.

 _This is torture. How does Oswald live like this?_ Ed draws his lips into his mouth in an effort to keep himself silent. Oswald taps each button so _slowly_ that seconds break up the shift between keys and Ed fights the desire to snatch the phone out of his hands and finish the task for him. If things continue in this manner, their afternoon would be over by the time Oswald finally gets around to hitting _send_.

Brows furrowing, Ed licks his bottom lip and clears his throat. “Is—is this normal?” he asks, waving his hand in the direction of Oswald’s phone.

Oswald looks up. “Is _what_ normal? Texting my boss to tell her I plan to…” he raises his own eyebrows in shock at the sentence that almost came out of his mouth, the _boldness_ of it. Ed’s making him feel far too comfortable and accepted, being alone in his presence, and it’s doing absurd things to Oswald’s level of outspokenness. Deciding to just say it, more polite than what he almost first uttered, he blinks a few times and looks at the ceiling as he smiles. “I’ve never had a reason to tell my boss that I want to stay home, in bed with my boyfriend, and make love to him for the rest of the day… _the week_ …as long as the world will leave us alone, honestly…”

Oswald catches him off guard with his comment and Ed drops his chin to his chest, blinking over the blush rapidly rising to his cheeks. _The day, the week…forever?_ Ed wouldn’t say no to the possibility of Oswald remaining home— _he called my place home!_ It could be a simple misplaced statement but the phrase and its current and future connotations take purchase of Ed’s mind. He fiddles with the end of the sheet covering his lap, fingers twisting and turning the fabric, until the repetitive _tap tap tap_ earworms its way into his mind.

 _I have no time for frivolities. If Oswald can cut my call short, then I can assist him in speeding up this process._ Decision set and made, Ed grins and shoots out a hand, nabbing Oswald’s phone. He ignores the squawked protests with a smirk splitting his face and types out his own text. _Dear Captain Mooney, I am taking a leave of absence—_

“Uh— _ahh_ ,” Ed chides, holding the phone in the air when Oswald reaches for it. “I’m doing you a favor. In a few seconds your arduous battle with _texting_ will be over and we can get back to doing…what you said.”

Oswald keeps struggling to get his phone back from Ed, but his arms are no match for how _long_ Ed’s are. The both of them end up in a heap, Oswald leaping to get the phone back from Ed before he does something _disastrous_ or worse yet, _embarrassing_ with the power to text Fish, but Ed declares _sent!_ before Oswald knows it. With his arms out over the back of Oswald’s head, biceps framing his face as he lies pinned to the bed, a frustrated and sore Oswald fails at the battle, dropping his head to Ed’s chest to grouse about losing.

It’s hard to consider it a real loss, to have Ed on his back, to be nuzzling against his chest again. “I can tell _you’re_ going to be a brat,” Oswald lovingly mocks. Rolling into Ed’s arms more, a stinging jolt of pain makes Oswald yelp instead, hissing as he reaches down to rub at his leg. “I think I overestimated… _everything,_ ” Oswald complains. “This is a new kind of sore,” he grins, trying to reassure the concerned look on Ed’s face.

“Oswald—”

“I’m fine, I promise,” Oswald pecks Ed on the lips, and the both of them get Oswald sitting up again, legs spread out much more comfortably, thank to Ed’s swift care. “How about we take a pause on our _plans?_ Make me breakfast while we wait for my muscles to limber up?” Oswald flushes at the new meaning that simple statement takes in this context. “An omelette and coffee, please.”

“Breakfast, yes. I can do that.” Ed nibbles on his fingertips, eyeing Oswald’s knee. _There must be something I can do to help him._ To see him in any sort of pain is enough to quickly snap Ed out of his relaxed cheerfulness. Oswald pushed himself too hard last night and now he’s paying the price. In his mind, Ed flicks through several different ways to assist him but acts on none. Oswald requested breakfast— _an omelette and a coffee_ —the significance doesn’t go unnoticed.

Reaching over Oswald, Ed pecks a kiss on his cheek and nuzzles the side of his face as he picks up his glasses. “Just…rest, _okay?_ ” he asks pointedly as he stands before hastily plopping himself back down, sheet covering his lap. “I need—I need underwear. I can’t cook… _naked_ , it’s not sanitary.”

A snort of laughter sounds beside him and Ed slaps his fingers to his mouth, thoroughly embarrassed. He is well accustomed to talking to himself in the comfort of his own home, but the filter he _attempts_ to keep in place in public and around company falls flat. Ed closes his eyes and breathes deeply, cheeks burning.

“What was that, Ed?” Oswald teases, amusement licking the tone of his voice.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Ed squeaks, ripping a pair of tartan print underwear out of the dresser, slipping them up his long legs before he scampers off to the kitchen.

As Ed stands at the stove, cooking Oswald’s breakfast, he stares into the bubbling mixture of egg and pinches the scar on his neck. _Oswald is rewriting our history, shifting negatives into positives._ As well and good as that may be, Ed frowns, for their past isn’t something that should be altered. When it comes down to it, all the mistakes and lessons, all the hardships and weeks of uncertainty lead to this very moment—Oswald in his bed, calm and relaxed, Oswald calling Ed his _boyfriend._

Unable to keep the smile off his face, Ed hums to himself and bounces on his toes, indulging in the atmosphere of domesticity. Although lacking people in his personal life, Ed enjoys caring for those closest to him. Kristen has benefitted from this for years, she became a recipient of all his care and affection, something that pleased them both. _Now it’s Oswald’s turn._ Ed’s heart fluttered as he stirs Oswald’s coffee three times in each direction, before placing it on the tray beside the omelette and carrying it over to him. Settling it on the bedside table, away from Oswald’s hands, Ed answers the question in Oswald’s quirked brow.

“You can eat soon,” he says reassuringly, sitting down on the edge of the mattress, “but first I wanted to ask you—no, _help_ _you_ with your knee. You’re in pain, Oswald, and I don’t like that, so I have devised two solutions. I have a heat cream which should help…but only an infinitesimal amount—I’m certain you’ve used them before. _Or_ —” the word is drawn out at length and Ed worries his hand together “—or I have a muscle relaxant. Keep in mind, while it is the recommended option, the relaxant may _inhibit…ah,_ sexual arousal and sensation—” Ed screws his face up but continues to babble, “—but it will help with the pain.” 

“Ed,” Oswald starts, looking at him through his lashes. His tone is somewhat stern; he can’t really help it naturally coming out; it’s too common between them in these moments when Ed is being absurd and making faces. Oswald looks back on at least a dozen times he remembers Ed behaving the same way over the course of their strange mentor/mentee relationship stage. “While it’s not lost on me either that we’re executing a sort of _redo_ to spending a morning together,” he smiles pointedly, to show his annoyance with the memory, before continuing, “there’s many things I’m amenable to doing in this bed with you, but drugs isn’t one of them. Well, right _now_ ,” he adds; eventually he’ll need to take painkillers in Ed’s presence again—he already did, multiple times, in the last month.

Grabbing the robe hanging off the back of Ed’s bed, Oswald shrugs it on; he’s feeling chilly and being _exposed_ in front of someone else is still something he’s not used to. Clothes have always been a comfort to Oswald; protective, a shield and a statement at once, if the material is right, pleasant to wear. Ed’s robes are all so well-worn in, so soft, like the man himself is to the touch. Tying the robe, Oswald swings forward to grab the tray, but Ed pulls it back.

Oswald snorts and flops back. “ _Fine_ , be like that, it’s just going to grow cold. Here,” he pulls his legs out from under the blankets and throws them around either side of Ed’s thighs, rocking back on his hands, “get the cream and massage my leg.” He looks at Ed and smiles with one corner of his mouth, hoping his words and demeanor are an effective display of how _fun_ the new take on their dynamic is becoming. Oswald never asked anything of Ed before, except for him to go away, but now Oswald’s greatest thrill is basking in how much _joy_ Ed seems to derive from serving Oswald what he requests.

Nodding his assent, Ed does as instructed. Scampering off the edge of the bed, he swiftly rifles though his medicine cabinet and grabs hold of the cream, turning it over in hand. It’s not going to be as effective as a relaxant, they both are aware of that, but _anything_ is better than _nothing_. If it helps to alleviate even a _little_ of Oswald’s pain, then Ed will be satisfied. Making his way back to his bed, Ed smiles at the image Oswald creates as he sits waiting patiently.

“I like seeing you in my clothes,” Ed chirps, tacking—“although I wasn’t opposed to the previous sight”—on a whim, smiling at himself in agreement. No matter what Oswald is, or _isn’t_ wearing, he commands Ed’s attention. From his pressed coats to Ed’s decade-old robe, Oswald is a vision.

Folding his legs beneath him, Ed fills the space between Oswald’s feet, heart constricting at the grisly image of Oswald’s knee. Mangled bones and surrounding muscles protrude at odd angles; the weeks haven’t done him any favours. Unfortunately, this is not something time can fix. 

“I wish I could have saved you from this,” Ed conveys, trailing his fingertips across Oswald’s patella. “If I got there sooner, if I was faster— _smarter_ , I could have been of some assistance. I could have _helped_.”

Without thought, Ed drops his lips to Oswald’s injured leg and gently mouths his way up and down each side, wishing more than anything that his breath held healing properties. _If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets._ Nothing is ever that simple. Above him Ed hears his name uttered so reverently, he draws back, eyes downcast. “Sorry, I—I’ll help you now.”

“You—you _tried_ to help me,” Oswald says, cupping Ed’s cheek in his palm and reaching under his glasses with his thumb to run the pad along Ed’s lashes. There’s some moisture there, which makes Oswald feel less alone in the fact that he could spring into tears in this moment as well. What they’re suddenly discussing (or, in Ed’s case, trying to abort the discussion) should’ve been obvious to Oswald as something they would eventually have to bring up.

“Do you _blame_ yourself for this?” Oswald ventures, as Ed nuzzles into the palm of his hand, nodding, his eyes drifting shut for a moment before he casts them down.

“Ed, Ed, _no_ ,” Oswald holds his face in both hands now, leaning forward to kiss across Ed’s nose and cheeks, lingering on his lips just once. He can’t even begin to unravel _which_ part Ed blames himself for: Oswald flies through the potentials in his head like a checklist, responding to each out loud.

“Forgetting waking up in this bed, scared for my _life_ because you had _absconded_ with me isn’t a memory I’ll likely ever forget, though now that I know you better, there’s so much humor to be found in it. The man you were almost two months ago is so different from the man I know now, and trust me, I already have weighed your sins against me, but filtered through your virtues this time, I’ve deemed you, astoundingly enough, forgivable.”

He smiles and scoots forward, beaming up at Ed with the rush of giddy, ardent _love_ that floods him. “It’s remarkable to watch how you’ve changed, how committed you are to this goal you’ve set yourself. If I’m redeemable, why not you? Why, I’ve just had the honor of watching you learn to _call people_ and ask _permission_ before showing up where they are,” he chides Ed with a wink, laughing at Ed’s quick flush of embarrassment. “I should’ve outsourced that lesson forever ago; nothing I did worked—” he pauses for a moment and looks to the side, lips sliding into a smirk. “Never mind. It was a _direct_ result of something I did,” he remarks, thinking of the state they woke up into together. “I get to claim credit after all,” he turns back to Ed and winks, before leaning back on his hands, thinking over Ed’s words in the blessed stretch of silence Ed is providing him with to think and speak without interruption. Ed listens raptly to all that he says, harkening back to their evening before on the fire escape.

“Jim Gordon trying to kill me _twice_ has nothing to do with you,” Oswald continues, analyzing the situation from another angle. “Besides, you saved me from him both times.” _The second time was when I fell in love with you._

“It’s a little obvious Miss Kringle was there that day—the day headquarters was attacked—because of your _involvement_ together, but it’s certainly not you fault that she too almost died.”

Oswald lingers on that point for a moment internally, worrying his lower lip while he processes the complicated tapestry of that one defining moment in his life. 

“Saving her life…” he starts, shifting his eyes down, for Ed’s face is too raw with emotion to linger on for long, “was the closest I think I will ever come to being the man my mother hoped I would be.” _Mothers_ , he should say, for Fish had similar hopes, and is closer to him now than he ever was with Gertrud, sadly enough. “A great man. A _hero_. You know my story now…you know _me_ …you must be able to imagine how that would have felt, to know I did something brave, something life-altering, almost life-ending, without hesitation, not in service of myself, but simply to help another. She looked so scared, Ed,” he swallows, meeting Ed’s eyes.

“She looked even more terrified when I told her to leave me, after I’d been pinned. To know she’s walking around, full of life and…doing _Lord_ knows what in nightclubs with the likes of _us_ ,” Oswald still didn’t understand the _point_ of last night, “and all that required was this?” He waves at his mangled leg. “Something this bad was surely _destined_ in my former life, except at least in this one, I got to help someone. I fear…I might never again, but…if I…” 

He feels himself choke up; crying in front of Ed is too embarrassing to even contemplate allowing himself to do, “I’m not the man I was two months ago, either. The opportunity to do something _good_ , with a _kind heart_ , might not come about again for a man like me.”

Forced to swipe at his eyes with the sleeves of Ed’s robe, Oswald laughs distractedly, thoughts drowned out by emotion. “The way you almost _kissed_ these hideous scars of mine made me feel…” _Beautiful, good, strong, a hero,_ “worshipped,” he confesses, stunned that out of all the words in his mind, that’s the one that slipped out. His breaths turn shallow and fast; to keep demanding things of Ed still feels foreign and odd, but so _right_ , despite all he’s ever known of decorum. 

“Do it again,” he exhales, presenting his ruined knee, lifting it into Ed’s lap.

“But the cream…” Ed tries to protest, only it’s so halfhearted, he finds himself wondering _why_ the words came out at all. The cream can wait, breakfast can wait, their emotional discussion can be pushed to into the ether for all Ed cares, for the opportunity to lavish Oswald with attention and adoration is what sets Ed’s heart alight.

Nodding more than necessary, Ed arches over himself and drops his lips to Oswald’s knee. His hands swiftly attend to the stiff muscles of Oswald’s thigh to begin kneading away knots. Up and down, Ed proceeds slowly, _meticulously_ , listening to the small gasps and sighs sounding above him.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” he whispers, waiting for a sound of confirmation before continuing. To have heard the way Oswald speaks so profoundly about his injury settles the heaviest of Ed’s concerns. That ability to find positives in something so _permanent_ , so disastrous, is an admirable feat. Ed could never do that.

Breathing deeply, Ed is aware of each passing breath and the way it bounces off Oswald’s skin to caress his lips. He works his way across every small divot and protrusion, paying homage to Oswald, to what set their life on this course. It’s so unquestionably wholesome that Ed, for once, doesn’t despise his own history. Despite the years of dread, pain and anguish he struggled through, he would capitulate to his torment again and again for the _chance_ to meet Oswald, for the chance be accepted, _loved_.

A shallow gasp sees Ed halt and he raises his eyes, peering over the rim of his glasses. Nerves lick the inside of his ribs and shift his organs; the fluttering of his eyelashes matches the proliferation of his heart.

 _Forget riddles,_ he tells himself as he inches up the space between Oswald’s splayed legs, holding his tender gaze. _They no longer hold importance._ _They aren’t the reason Oswald is here. The Riddler isn’t who Oswald slept with._

Ed may have only known Oswald a few, short, _perplexing_ months, but when it comes to the matters of the heart, time matters little for love: love lengthens time, it doubles seconds and triples hours. Love is a lifesource few truly tap into and Ed wants to spend as many moments as he can in Oswald’s company.

Ducking his head, eyes prickling, Ed takes purchase of Oswald’s hands and brings them to his chest, slotting his fingers overtop. His heart beats so erratically, so _forcefully_ , the sensation travels through Oswald’s palm and into Ed’s own.

“Oswald,” Ed begins as he licks his lips and raises his chin. “I love you.”

He probably can’t feel it, unless his hand were on Oswald’s chest instead, but Oswald’s heart beats as hard as Ed’s, and the pace almost fits in time with Ed’s, and the astounding synchronicity makes Oswald’s ears ring, makes the world spin without motion.

That, or he’s just in shock, and nothing he’s perceiving is quite correct, save for the beginning welling of tears in Ed’s eyes. With his hands pinned against Ed, there’s little for Oswald to do but gravitate towards him, complete the magnetic pull neither of them can escape. Tilting his head, he kisses the back of one of Ed’s hands, eyes closed, nose brushing against Ed’s fingers. Slowly working his way across each hand, Oswald keeps bathing Ed in kisses, sweet and somehow heart-wrenching all at once.

Ed _sobs_ , actual tear-soaked and reverberating, and Oswald shushes him, prying his hands out from under Ed’s gently, sliding them down to cradle Ed’s waist, hoisting and guiding him into Oswald’s lap, leaning them both back against the headboard. From this angle, Oswald can kiss up the smooth, flat plane of Ed’s chest, over his sharp collarbones, mouthing up his neck and jaw, as he drags his hands along Ed’s back and up to cup his head, cradling the nape of his neck as Oswald pulls him into a crushing meeting of lips. They both suck in air when they can as their mouths meet and meet, again and again, Oswald fingering locks of Ed’s hair against his skin like short, silken ribbons while they kiss.

Pushing down into Oswald’s lap, Ed whines, dropping his wrists to both of Oswald’s shoulders.

“My love, you’re shaking,” Oswald whispers, kissing a tear off Ed’s cheek. And he is. He’s trembling like a half-pasted poster on a street sign pole. “Don’t,” he breathes; he can feel the heat rising off Ed’s cheeks through his lips. “I love you. _I love you._ ”

Out of all the words Ed has heard in his life there have never been any more beautiful or weighted than _I love you._

“Again,” Ed pleads, with his mouth pressed against Oswald’s jaw, and Oswald repeats himself without hesitation. Fresh tears stain Ed’s cheeks as he chokes out a relieved laugh which further rattles his chest. “ _Again,_ ” he says and once more the declaration rolls of Oswald’s tongue, topped with more emotion than eight letters should hold.

Cradling Oswald’s cheeks with trembling fingers, Ed drags him forward till their mouths reconnect, wet lips parting and pressing in their own singular pattern. Every term of endearment Oswald has so freely uttered over the course of their morning worms its way through Ed’s thoughts, coiling like smoke caught in the wind as he licks into Oswald’s mouth, tasting his breath as he groans. _My dearest, my boyfriend, my love._ Ed seals the words in the forefront of his mind, locking them in place with the taste of Oswald’s lips and the smooth texture of his skin as a bonding agent.

Working his way down Oswald’s neck, Ed’s collarbone is lavished with small nips and kisses that cause him to quake for an entirely different reason. Strong hands clutch his back and Ed is overly aware of each digit and the way it digs into his muscles, each one differentiating in pressure. 

“ _Oswald_ ,” he croaks, stomach tightening. His nose meets the soft cotton fabric of the robe and Ed buries his face into it, trailing his damp cheek back and forth, indulging in the erotic side of sensory sensitivity, but the robe is nothing compared to what lies beneath it.

Feeling hazy and unfocused in the most pleasant of ways, Ed sinks down into Oswald’s lap and rocks his hips, whimpering as his hands set to ridding Oswald of the distracting layer separating them. 

“Oswald,” Ed moans again as the robe puddles—at least Ed _thinks_ it does, he’s not about to scoot back and check—atop the mattress and _finally_ Oswald is free to touch, free to explore.

A blossoming heat coats Ed’s face, radiating from beneath Oswald’s skin. For a small man he burns hot, bright, and _passionate_ : an all-consuming fire. It dances across Ed’s cheeks and down his neck, settling internally, transforming into a need Ed is swiftly becoming accustomed to. Collapsing forward till their chests align and their hearts beat simultaneously between them, Ed clutches on Oswald’s shoulders and breathes in the scent of him as he hovers his lips over the hammering pulsepoint on Oswald’s neck.

“Oswald…” Ed’s cries grow more insistent, as does his desire. He swiftly snags Oswald’s hand and guides it down to where he needs it most. “ _Please,_ ” he begs.

Stroking Ed through his underwear, Oswald murmurs, “Get these off,” his voice low and guttural compared to his normal tone. Together they manage to raise Ed up enough for him to awkwardly pull one leg out of the garment; he whines the entire time, voice breathy and pleading, chanting Oswald’s name, his damn sock garters still on, and still as mouth-wateringly sexy as the night before. 

“It’s good enough, that’s good enough,” Oswald pants, pushing the damn fabric out of their way, still caught around the lower half of Ed’s other thigh. Cupping just above Ed’s backside, Oswald drags him back into his lap, and both of them gasp when bare skin meets the most sensitive of bare skin.

Oswald’s not sure if the fingers he digs into the back of Ed’s pelvic bone are what spurs Ed on so sweetly, or if Ed moves of his own accord; his face speaks to the fact that he seems to be lost in his own rapture, as if a symphony only he can hear plays in his mind, a private song for a two-person audience. 

And oh, does Oswald treasure being observer to the show, to the slow, magnificent roll of Ed’s entire body, as he rocks in Oswald’s lap, each thrust like a wave demonstrated by the loose pliancy of Ed’s body as he dances to whatever chorus he’s lost inside himself. 

The more forceful their mutual blathering becomes (Oswald demands Ed declare his love again; Ed moans and begs Oswald with nothing but the use of his name and _please_ ), the more the leverage Oswald provides with his hands gripping Ed tightly, robe only hanging on his forearms, pooled around his back, shielding the small space full of their friction even hotter than their skin already throws off.

Ed resorts to bracing himself against the headboard, the creaking of the frame ringing out as Ed tightens his grip, still rolling _deliciously_ , muscles and bone and thin frame pressing against Oswald until they’re both calling out, chasing the edge almost in tandem. Oswald arches his head, positioned against the metal bar of the headboard as well, back as his world cuts quickly to white and then black and then _nothing_ but the pounding rush of blood and electricity courses through his body, as he can’t help but whisper _Ed, Ed_ as he drops down from the height of ecstasy his lover (and their confessions) had brought him to.

Seconds later, the skin on Ed’s back prickles and he spills himself with a hearty groan, hips rocking sporadically until he collapses and falls lax against Oswald. Peppering lazy kisses in the crook of Oswald’s neck, Ed sighs in content, feeling utterly serene, like the brief clear patches of Gotham’s sky, where the sun shines down and shadows fall away. 

“Say it again?” Ed asks and Oswald chuckles.

“I love you, Ed.”

“I love you, too,” Ed conveys, grimacing seconds later as he pulls back, now faced with the stickiness that is coating his stomach. “I…need a shower.”

Cleanliness is something Ed has often prided himself on, yes it is an impulsive need, a drive to have everything, _including himself_ , in the most pristine of conditions, something which has been neglected in favour of Oswald. “You _also_ need one.” Ed smiles, eyes half lidded and he brushes back the floppy strands of Oswald’s hair. No longer do they stand on point, they’re flat, somewhat oily, altogether making for one precious image when coupled with his rosy cheeks and bright eyes.

Pecking a kiss to the tip of Oswald’s nose, Ed cleans them down with the wet wipes kept in the bedside drawers then flops down onto the mattress throwing his arm over his face. 

“ _Ugh_ ,” he grumbles, kicking his legs about before shoving his face in Oswald’s hip, wrapping his arm around him. “I need to tidy up, my apartment’s a _shambles_.” There is an ever-growing list of duties Ed should be attending to: dishes, clothes washing, sweeping and that’s not to mention the sheets that should have been changed the night before. This is the opposite of organiszed chaos, something Ed _only_ allows inside his workshop, yet he can’t find the will to begin.

“You didn’t eat your breakfast,” Ed says, as he pulls back and smiles.

Oswald scoffs and laughs at Ed’s complaining. “I’ll eat it cold, I don’t care—I wasn’t trading time spent on…on _that_ ,” he huffed, trailing his fingers down Ed’s back, “to worry about _eating_. I can do that anytime, my god.”

“Really, Ed, I’m not sure whether to be disappointed in myself or in you, that after having thoroughly outdone ourselves in terms of reaching…” he decides it’s best to speak quickly, before he trips over his own words by contemplating them, “previously-established erotic and romantic heights just _now, even_ versus last night’s profundity, and all you’ve got on your mind is to complain about your apartment. And _cleaning_. As if that matters.” Oswald is a little grumpy about this, truth be told. He can barely _think_ , and Ed’s grousing about his _to-do list_.

“Up here,” he commands, with a hand on Ed’s shoulder, suggesting he scoot up so they are at eye-level again. “Why did I think you would be easier to deal with because we’re lovers now? You’re still the same in—” he sighs and rolls his eyes, cutting himself off before even he found out what he was going to say. He’s not actually cross (how could he be, honestly?) and he ruffles Ed’s hair fondly. “I am your to-do list,” he informs Ed, since he seems to have forgotten the point of them deciding to stay exactly where they are for the foreseeable future. “Breakfast, showers, cleaning, none of these things are as important as _me_.” He kisses Ed’s nose. “Or _you_ ,” he adds, lazily ghosting his lips over Ed’s. “Or _us_. And I think we both need to rest.”

Ed flicks his eyes from Oswald to the bothersome mess coating his apartment. If he didn’t feel so drained and thoroughly sated, he would have tidied up, but everything could wait, for the call of Oswald’s embrace takes precedence. “Then cuddle me,” he says, battering his eyelashes playfully, before discarding his glasses. Oswald complies after shaking his head, seemingly exasperated, but Ed believes he knows him well enough to discern the meaning behind that gesture.

Drawing the covers over them, Ed tucks himself into Oswald’s side, hooking a leg over Oswald’s own, snaking an arm around his midsection and pecks a kiss to his chin. “Y’know, if you wanted me _restrained_ to this bed, you could have asked,” he teases, smirking as Oswald’s blinks in surprise, “but you’re right, you _are_ my priority…housework can wait.” _At least until you are asleep,_ Ed avoids saying by slotting his mouth over Oswald’s, indulging in a few slow kisses before settling down, ready to claim some more much needed rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hope that makes up for the slow-burn! They're gonna fuck a lot more but for now, let's pan out from the bedroom and go see what the other characters are up to. There _is_ a whole plot to tend to, after all. See that "eventual happy ending" tag up top? Yeah, well, paradise never lasts long. Until then, you have the high of this chapter to keep you warm and happy! 
> 
> Subscribe to the fic if you haven't yet, so you'll get alerted when Ch. 11 is posted, and definitely leave a comment before you depart! Keysmashes and incoherent yelling are as welcome as lengthy, bonus-material prompting comments are <3 
> 
> Thank you everyone, and have a wonderful day or night, wherever you are!


	11. What's Your Story?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kristen, still on her (what seems hopeless) mission, decides to go seeking information from the same source twice…and later, we have a glimpse at how two of our favorite vacationers are faring. Enjoy chapter 11!

Peeking around the corner of the service corridor, Kristen watches Fish's first drink as it’s delivered by one of the wait staff. The police captain scoops it off the table and throws it back in one sip. Something in the way the muscles in her wrist move gives away the restraint in not slamming the glass down. Instead, it’s placed squarely on the wood, and she runs her fingertip along the rim, the nail polish on her fingers flickering under the catches of light in a prism.

Kristen gulps, preparing herself for her entrance. She fists the edges of her pink leather coat tightly and tugs it down, wanting to wrap herself in it. Her stride over is more a careful glide, with one arm across her chest and one pressed into her side. Hopping, without a word, onto the stool across from Fish, Kristen clasps her hands and rests them on the tabletop, smiling at the captain, her upper lip folding from the tightness of her grin. "So," Kristen starts, rocking her hands from side to side, her knuckles switching, taking turns meeting the table, hands still held as if there's something grasped between her palms, "Any new information for me?" Her voice glides upwards in pitch with each word she speaks, inhaling shakily at the end. Fish looks _bored_ and Kristen isn't sure what that means.

“Tell me _why_ I should give information to the girl who has kept me waiting for fifteen minutes? My time is precious, Little Red, and you’ve wasted enough of it.” Fish stares down into her empty tumbler, tilting it back and forth, watching the last miniscule droplet roll around the base. She refuses to meet her _guest’s_ eyes, instead opting for nonverbally signalling the bartender, raising two fingers in the air, then letting them fall to point at her glass. The bartender makes quick work of bringing them each a drink.

New glass of whiskey in hand, Fish taps her nails against the outer edge, listening to the tinkling sounds chiming like a small bell. “Don’t look so surprised, child,” she drawls, spine straightening as she shifts her gaze to the perplexed redhead, green eyes swimming with questions. “I knew you were tailing me from the moment I left the department. You aren’t very subtle.” Pursing her lips, chin resting on the back of her hand, Fish flicks her eyes over Red’s frame, catching the pink hues of her jacket, the fiery nature of her hair and the delicate eyeshadow which brightens her face. _Not subtle at all._

For nearly an hour, Fish strode her way through the streets of Gotham, head held high, ears alert, catching the near silent taps of Red’s heels as they met the pavement. The girl was good—had Fish been anyone other than who she is, the distinct sights and sounds of Red tailing her would have blended in with the general bustle of the city, which is why she decided to take matters into her own hands by entering the first familiar bar that crossed her path. If Little Red wanted to talk, Fish prefered to pair that with a steady stream of alcohol.

“ _Besides_ ,” she continues with a wave of her hand, knocking her drink back seconds later, “I wouldn’t be a competent captain if I couldn’t tell I was being stalked. Shall I assume you are here on business, or did you just miss me?”

 _I wanted to see you again_ , Kristen thinks. “Business, obviously, or did you forget about the matter we’re both looking into?” she answers so hurriedly, she’s unsure what the words are that come out of her mouth _are_ until they’re already gone.

Inhaling in short, rapid bursts, as if her breath itself is trying to climb stairs, Kristen shuffles back into her seat, before reaching for the glass of whiskey in front of her, swirling it once before throwing back a sip. _Give me courage_ , she asks the liquor as it slides down her throat.

 _You’re pathetic!_ her ego reminds her, as her nerves build in spite of her attempts to lessen them.

 _Really, like I didn’t know already_ , she counters, before telling herself to shut up.

“None of my leads _lead_ anywhere,” she confesses, more despairingly than demonstratively. “Ed said I shouldn’t—” Kristen darts her eyes back and forth as she considers whether Fish knows yet or not where Ed is, and what _exactly_ he and Oswald are up to. It’s not her place to tell if the woman doesn’t know yet, so she skims over the topic with a shake of her head. “I haven’t given up yet, though.” She rocks her foot back and forth, heel looped through the metal foot rest on the stool. “We share the same passion for facts, from what I can tell, so I assume you haven’t, either,” and with a raise of her eyebrow, she finishes her drink in one steady sip.

“No, I haven’t,” Fish says, with a small jut of her chin as she clicks her teeth together. She delved into the issue the day following their previous chat, attempting to connect a seemingly random set of events and was without results. The behavior displayed was unlike anything the Riddler has exhibited and after getting to know Edward, she was struggling correlating his personality with the crime’s facts. Still, Little Red had concerns, so, far be it from her to ignore them.

“I haven’t been fruitful in the slightest.” Fish admits. Red’s face falls and for a second Fish feels guilt, as though she isn’t trying hard enough. That isn’t the case at all, she has tried, only there is nowhere to take it.

“In saying that,” she continues with a heavy sigh, “I’ve had my officers canvassing the area, talking to anyone and everyone they can and what they have reported is that _Alfred Pennyworth_ was seen in the area the very same night. Now don’t look so hopeful—” Fish clicks her fingers and waves her hand through the air, drawing the girl out of her mind, “— Pennyworth _may_ have been there but the ligature marks and wound patterns on the victims are not congruent with his style. There’s the brutality, but little of the finesse for someone with his experience.”

Fish closes her eyes and runs her fingers over her brows, widening them to massage her temples. The reemergence of Pennyworth surprised her; along with Lucius Fox, he has been rather quiet in recent years. They pair aren’t stirring any waters, which is fortunate, as for a time they were the most notorious duo around. Fox the brain, Pennyworth the brawn: a formidable couple. Despite Fox occupying the highest seat in the underworld, he operates within _acceptable_ limits and keeps his people in line, save for a troublesome few, including Bullock and Gordon.

Dropping her hand to the table, Fish looks to the girl before her, lost in thought, eyes almost vacant. Red is so desperate to prove her partner's innocence… _in this attack_. He is guilty of many other things, including murder, threats, and thefts, but this is the one Red is stuck on. A case with no leads. _It’s going to eat her up._ Dropping her feet to the floor, Fish makes for the bar, returning with two new glasses of whiskey, which she promptly settles down before insinuating herself at Red’s side.

“Look at me,” she commands, placing a finger under Red’s chin. Green eyes meet Fish’s own, flicking left and right in question. “You need to let this go, if only for a time. I know this isn’t something you want to do but it will destroy you if you cannot separate yourself from it.” Transferring one of the drinks into Red’s hand, Fish nods, foot tapping till the cup meets her lips.

“Now, I have a question for you.” Leaning forward a fraction, Fish grins, one corner of her mouth turning up. “When is it you are planning on telling me your name, or do you prefer me calling you by your moniker?”

Kristen tries to repress the residual shudders that pass through her, all thanks to the momentary line Fish's nail had pressed into the underside of her chin. It wasn't a hard enough graze to leave a scratch, let alone a mark, but somehow each molecule of Kristen's skin tingles where the sharpness had met skin.

"How drunk are you planning on getting me?" Kristen asks, raising the newest glass and her eyebrows at the same time. Giggling softly, she shakes her head and guns it, smacking her mouth afterwards from the sting. Whiskey is her drink of choice, too, but whatever Fish is having is stronger than Kristen is accustomed to. It's classy stuff; definitely Scottish, as opposed to the more basic American kinds Kristen is loyal to, only by default.

Placing the glass back down and breaking away from Fish's incresingly softening gaze, Kristen ducks her face behind her hair and drums her fingers on her knee. "I told you already—you figured out my moniker all on your own. Besides," she murmurs, arching her shoulder into Fish's space, tilting her head only slightly so she still can only look at Fish out of the corner of her eye, "we both know you already know my _name-_ name. "

Kristen widens her eyes and grins impishly. "Of course I know, silly. You looked up the name I had before I 'died' first thing, I bet." _I know I would._ "Kristen isn't as pretty as _Maria_ or _Mercedes_ , but it's what I was given. People don't even spell it right— _Kristen_ —it's with an E." She holds out a finger in mock warning. "And _don't_ say a word about that godawful surname of mine!" she whines. "I've heard every joke in the book, thanks to Eddie."

Exhaling out the other side of her mouth to blow her hair out of her face, she looks away from Fish while she taps her chin with her finger, trying to direct sensory attention away from that invisible line. "Would you be surprised if I admit that I'm _not_ surprised Fox is involved in this somehow? I've been thinking about it all this time, for some reason—it lurked in the back of my mind. Not without due cause," she confesses, frowning. At that, Fish leans back, arms out straight, pushing back against the table. Kristen's eyes go wide as she tries to figure out what she's said to cause such a reaction. "Are you going to get me another one of these?" she asks brazenly, grabbing the glass and waving it at Fish. _I have to keep her here, keep her talking to me._

Eying the cup in _Kristen’s_ hand, Fish raises her brows and ponders the request. Another drink can be easily obtained, but there is a much better alternative. Tongue held flat in her mouth, Fish turns on her heel, stalks her way to the bar and waves the man down with a wiggle of her fingers. Instead of opting for what is expected, she returns to the table with a freshly opened bottle of whiskey in hand. Why interrupt the flow of conversation for more drinks, when there is little reason to?

"If you need more ice, the bar is there. I'm not here to run your errands," Fish says as she tops up Kristen's glass, then her own, sending the last slithers of ice afloat. Shuffling into her seat, feet coming to rest on the metal rungs of the bar stool, Fish files away a mental note to look into Kristen's last name. She has yet to have the chance; it hasn't exactly been on her list of priorities as of late, but now she finds herself somewhat intrigued. _Where did Little Red come from and what is her history?_ They are questions for another time.

“Why is it you suspect Fox to have involvement, surely even _you_ know that he is barely operative. Besides, I thought it was Edward you believed to have done this.” Fish takes a sip of her drink, lips lingering on the rim of the glass as she peers over it. The girl— _Kristen,_ she reminds herself, lapses into silence, with thoughts flashing through her eyes. Why is it that Kristen isn’t surprised by Fox and Pennyworth’s supposed complicity to the crime? Does Edward have connections to the two men? There are discoveries to be made here, Fish realizes, but outright interrogating Kristen might see her become more secretive than ever. She’d much rather not have to spend all night drawing out answers when the girl can tell her herself.

“Kristen,” Fish pauses to lick her lips. The name feels odd on her tongue, almost weighted, but she pushes that notion aside. Lowering her glass and her shoulders, Fish adopts an air of relaxation. As she rests her forearms on the table she leans forward, chin hovering over her glass and smiles for a brief second. “You should know by now that there are no reason to keep secrets, _especially_ from me.”

Running the tip of her finger around the circumference of her glass, Fish swallows back a smirk when Kristen’s gaze drops to watch the movement of her hand. “We’re in this together, are we not?”

Kristen shrugs and grabs the whiskey bottle— _yup, this is top-shelf, imported stuff_. She should've known Fish would have a taste for only the finest things in life, based on the quality of her jackets, perfect nails, and while she wore similar-looking dark blazers and shirts fitting her station, there was no hiding how luscious the material was or how expert the tailoring was. It seemed it wasn't just Oswald Cobblepot and Victor Zsasz who were dressed beyond their roles…Kristen raises her eyebrows and shakes off the oddness of the coincidence as she pours herself another drink. If one of the three of them is some kind of tailor, Eddie will surely find out and blather to her about it for _hours_ , so there’s no point analyzing it now.

Fish rests her chin on the back of her hand. The expression she wears confuses Kristen, because the woman both stares impassively at her but with the smallest smile tugging at her lips.

"I…" Kristen swallows around nothing, processing the quickly-shrugged away idea of being _partners_ with Fish in something. Outside of her partnership with Ed and her casual friendship with Lee, Kristen has no one and hasn't since Tom— _scratch that_ , she thinks, because in fact, she was more alone before her one life ended and the second began.

"I'm fortunate to have you on my side, then," Kristen says softly, going for her latest glass, already having lost count, instead of trying to meet Fish's eyes again. She really needs to slow down….

"Could you just…could you just call me _Red_ , please?" Something about making that request is difficult, because her name is a way for her to sort where she categorizes someone in her life, yet filing Fish away as either _business_ or _personal_ is too difficult a choice to make. If Fish doesn't go by her real name, then Kristen doesn't want to, either. It's a simple influence. Fish blinks slowly at her and she assumes it’s all the answer she’ll be receiving, so she moves on to the topic at hand again.

Tracing her nails through a groove in the wood tabletop, Kristen rubs her lipstick between her lips before speaking again.

"Remember I mentioned Eddie has a problem with Oswalds?" Fish tilts her head slightly at the odd pluralization. Kristen hums, pursing her lips as she smiles. "You heard that right. Oswald isn't the first of his kind. Granted, it's because of _me_ that Ed might be more… _forward_ about all of it now, but he's always been easily captivated by powerful, complicated men. I didn't think your _file jockey_ would prove to be the end-all of the fixations…he outdid the _literal_ King of Gotham in Ed’s hierarchy; that’s impressive, for what it’s worth.”

"Anyway, Ed's still _friends_ with Fox. Has been for years. It's charming to find out the cops think he's _barely operative._ I guess it helps that Ed and I both have friends in high places." Kristen so badly wants to brag about her own growing connections: infiltrating the Sirens, the phone call she received from the mayor, even this very moment is another victory in Kristen’s fast amassing of _connections_ , but it's best if she stays quiet about it. Trusting Fish too much is an embarrassingly bad idea, when most of that trust is born out of her warm brown eyes and musically _gorgeous_ voice…

“I’m not overly fond of you calling myself and my officers inept,” Fish chastises, subtly warning Kristen never to do so again. Her department is not without faults but they are doing good work; organized crime is acting within their limits and the crime rate drops a little every year. They should be praised for protecting the citizens of Gotham, not admonished, for at the end of the day the morality of the city swings in Fish’s direction as opposed to the chaos of the corrupt.

Drumming her nails in a repetitive motion, Fish struggles, more than she cares to admit, to discern if Kristen is telling the truth or acting pompous, pretending to know that which she does not. If Fox _was_ back, Fish should be making preparations, not spending her night drinking in a bar with an allusive but _charming_ criminal.

“So Edward knows Fox?” Fish says as she slides the bottle in her direction, ready to fill her glass the second it empties. “Hardly surprising, you’re all interconnected in one way or another.” What Fish isn’t letting on, as she keeps a relatively blank mask intact, is that it _is_ unexpected information. _I hate surprises_ , she grumbles internally. Fish prides herself on understanding the city and its citizens but finds her comprehension of the underworld and its forces sorely lacking. _I’ve been away too long._ For someone of the Riddler’s calibre to worm their way into being _friends_ with the head of Gotham’s underworld…well, there’d have to be a reason, and then there are Kristen’s own connections. _What are you hiding?_

“Where did you come from, Kristen?” Fish asks, concealing her smile in the rim of her glass as the redhead’s expressive eyes widen with a fluttering of lashes. Swallowing a sip of her whiskey, she turns her cup over in hand and licks away a small droplet of alcohol caught in the corner of her mouth.

“Forgive the slip of my tongue. Where did you come from, _Little Red?_ What’s _your_ story?” Fish doesn’t need to tell Kristen that research into who she is hasn’t been done, that much is apparent with unspoken words hanging in the air waiting to be plucked. She’s not even sure she will find anything. If Kristen is as dead as she claims, there will be little to discover.

Oddly enough, Fish finds herself interested in her tale, something she tries to squash down. She can’t let her curiosity outweigh her morals. _I’ve been burned before._

"The suburbs," Kristen answers with a smirk. Fish doesn't look pleased. Sighing, Kristen rolls her eyes and starts again. "I'm not kidding—I grew up just outside Gotham. Much more boring than here, but quieter. I'm used to run-down houses and overgrown grass sticking out of the sidewalks. Why don't I ever see them in the heart of the city? Is it because nothing lives long here?"

Leaning forward, Kristen presses her elbows together, stretches her arms out, and leans her chest across them. "That's what you're _actually_ asking me, right? About how I'm still living if I keep saying I'm dead?” She weaves her fingers together, grasping hand-in-hand, and forces a grin again.

She can act cavalier about it but it's not a story she's going to find easy to tell. Eddie was involved in the aftermath of it, and oddly, he never asked questions beyond a certain point, almost if he sensed the walls around certain parts of Kristen's life, the invisible lines that delineate where no one is to cross into. For someone as bad at boundaries in every other regard, Kristen assumed Ed had first-hand experience with the kind of situations she'd been through herself. Not identical, but close enough that he knew when to help and when to keep away.

"I'm no different that the typical girl who's lived a life like mine. High school was a bad time, only because I would've gotten better grades if I hadn't been so caught in dating one creepy guy after another—something I would've never _wasted_ my time doing if my _friends_ hadn't noticed my lack of boy-craze was getting suspect by my mid-teens, so I dove head-first into a world I wish I'd never become part of. I got into Otisburg Community College, moved into the city with the guy I was dating when I graduated, and I did one semester before I ran out of money. Many bad jobs and many, _many_ awful men later, I’d just dumped the man I dated before I met _Tom_.”

Kristen clasps her hands together so tightly that her knuckles crack. She flexes her weaved fingers out to snap the joints back into place, jaw locked and brows tense.

“I was working at a bar when I met him. Not the nicest place, not the nicest job. All I did was clean, and he’d chat with me while I did, did a _great_ job of pretending to be a nice guy. Things were looking up. I’d seen an ad in the paper for an entry-level civilian job filing paperwork, and I was excited about applying. There’s something about record-keeping that makes me feel at peace—like I belong. I was an accounting major, I worked in my school’s library since middle school…I figured it’s all similar enough, right?” Kristen sits back, digs her nail into the back of her palm, scratching herself harshly. “Then Tom had to go and get himself in trouble, and he convinced me that applying to work at a _police station_ was not the best idea I’d ever had. For _his_ sake.”

Stopping to pour herself another drink, Kristen clumsily places the bottle down, spilling a bit of it on the table. The amber liquid in the bottle sloshes around, and the motion matches her current emotional state.

“It’s not a complex story from there, how it all turned so bad, so fast. He wasn’t the first man to hit me, to tell me what to do, wasn’t the first to—well, I’ve been through it all, really, but he was the first to pull a gun on me.”

Fish’s eyes go wide and Kristen nods.

“I don't know where he got it from, or why he decided to bring it to my place, but he did! He kept firing it into the ceiling, into the wall, screaming at me, out of his mind. Guess all the noise startled my upstairs neighbor, nerdy guy, an odd man, always working on something up there, because he came down to see what was going on, but not until I'd already ended up the next target Tom aimed at, and…and not till I’d already done something I couldn’t take back."

She shudders, remembering the gleam of the metal barrel, the ringing in her eyes from the shots already fired, the distinct sound of him cocking the gun…

"It was Ed who found me, drenched in Tom's blood, holding one of my grandmother's knives. You know, I never used it until then? Never used it again either, obviously…it was just so… _heavy_."

Rubbing the pad of her thumb along the droplets of condensation on her glass, Kristen succumbs to memory, barely aware of her surroundings or the piercing, quiet stare of Fish Mooney. The lights of the bar are a blur; the golden, reddish hue at least _feels_ warm.

"Annoying, obsessive little Eddie. He was fixated with me back then, and I had a split-second choice. My fate was in his hands, either way. Would he call the cops, or would he help me instead?"

There's so much more to the story, but it's not something Kristen wants to remember; most of it she's blocked-out, anyway.

"I think which option he picked was obvious. The homicide— _my_ homicide, was his idea. The way he faked Tom's disappearance, too. That's how I found out I wasn't the only one with an interest in the files down at the GCPD…"

Kristen exhales and looks at a point past Fish's shoulder. "I bet you'll make the _same_ choice he did. That's why I'm not afraid to tell you my tale. As for my _other_ crimes, well…you'll have to look me up."

“ _Oh_ , believe me...I will be.” Fish catches herself before she gives into her desire to rake her eyes all over Kristen and throw a wink. _Maria Mercedes Mooney, what are you doing? The girl opened up to you about her tragic past and all you are thinking is—_

Fluttering her eyes closed, Fish cuts off that thought and takes a slow deep breath. _I’ve had too much to drink,_ she tells herself, taking notice of the heat pouring out of her skin and although she knows any more will be to her detriment, she takes another sip.

It is odd for a stranger, let alone a _criminal_ to be so open about their history. Fish herself has kept hers under lock and key, only allowing a few to step inside; Oswald out of necessary connection, Victor in the name of partnership. Then there’s Kristen, who after a few drinks, spills her tale. Fish brings her glass to her lips again, arm moving without thought. _I’ve dealt with many foolish girls but none have been so forthcoming._

Liza was open about many things and yet Fish took that as a sign of full honesty, blinding her to the snake underneath. Cocking her head to the side, she allows her eyes shift to the redhead, blinking quickly to refocus her vision. Kristen stares down into her glass, curled eyelashes dance along her flushed cheeks, the only outward sign of movement. _Are you a snake too, Little Red?_ Fish finds herself struggling to categorize her. For all intents and purposes, Kristen’s pleaded demands for answers to her conundrums are akin to a lost little lamb calling for its mother; feeble but earnest. _I can’t help you._ Sliding her free hand across the table, Fish seeks out Kristen’s own, diverting course at the last second to snatch up the bottle to pour one last mouthful of alcohol into her glass. Swallowing it down, she drops to her feet and straightens her shoulders, ignoring the buzzing in her head.

“Right, well, okay...I think it’s time for me to leave,” Fish says. “Thanks for the chat and your fumbled attempt at stalking. It’s been... _pleasant._ ”

Kristen’s brows raise and narrow, and her lips part with silent thoughts. Cursing herself for following her momentary lapse in judgement— _I’m going to regret this tomorrow_ —Fish steps around the table and tucks the silken strands of Kristen’s hair over her ear, fingers brushing down her jaw.

“Keep yourself safe. I mean it,” she orders, then unwillingly retreats.

"No, wait!" Kristen all but shouts, reaching for Fish and grabbing her by the forearm. Spinning in her chair fast, Kristen reaches down for Fish's wrist, holding her with both hands. _What did I do wrong, what did I do wrong?_ Kristen wonders. She's too drunk to argue with herself in her head, and the only thought she has is on an echoing loop.

"I'm sorry," Kristen says, feeling cold all over with panic. "I'm sorry, please don't—please, please don't judge me. Not like that. I'm not…" Wiping at her face, Kristen stifles the urge to—to—she can't even qualify her emotions, can't even process what she's going to say before she says it. It's easier to keep speaking without a filter; and since the damage is done, why stop?

"I'm not insane, I swear," she pleads, stomach sick from the disdain she'd seen in Fish's eyes, heard in her tone. "I got tired of being hurt, and then…it came so _easily_ to me, to strike first, strike _worse_. I worked my way through my own list, every person who ever hurt me, I paid Edward back by helping him with his, same kind of list, that’s why we’re the same, I-I know I'm—"

Fish flexes her arm, and although her muscles are clearly strong enough that she could've pried Kristen's grasp off whenever she wanted, Kristen senses she's waiting for her to do the sensible thing and let go herself, which she does.

"I'm sorry, I've never told anyone that whole story and—I'm not a good person, I know that. My subconscious won't let me forget, _trust me_. It’s…getting worse all the time. I'm getting worse all the time. But I'm still trying…trying to not let myself slip."

Hopping off the stool from the other side, Kristen slips away from their table, working on sliding herself between the chairs so she can escape. "I'll leave, please, you stay, you were here first, I…I need your help more than I need your company, I didn't mean to…I shouldn't have done this, told you that, come here, I'm…" She digs the palms of her hands into her eyes, forgetting her makeup; her mascara stings as it's ground into her eyeballs. "I shouldn't have done this." _I didn't want to feel small and powerless and that's exactly how I've set myself up. Idiot!_

Heart _aching_ , Fish drops all proprietary and steps forward to grab Kristen by the shoulders, drawing her close. She shifts an arm around her waist with her other hand takes purchase in a sea of red hair, encouraging Kristen to bend down. Even with a high pair of heels on, Fish is no match for her height. “I don’t think badly of you, not in the slightest. After what you went through with him, you must have been terrified.” Fish rests her head against Kristen’s own, guilt settling heavy inside of her, dragging her mood down with it. _I should have said something, rather than opting to leave…_

Kristen cries into her shoulder, prompting Fish to press soft, shushing sounds into her ear. “Sweetheart, I wasn’t leaving because of you, not entirely. It has _nothing_ to do with your history so stop fretting over that. I only—” Running her hand up and down Kristen’s back, Fish attempts to collect her thoughts, a difficult feat to manage after several drinks and a distraught girl clinging to her. _In trying to protect myself, I hurt you in return. I’m sorry._

“Kristen, I need you to look up for me.” A wordless sob is not the response Fish wants but it is the one she expects. Withholding a sigh, Fish cards her fingers through Kristen’s hair, comforting her the only way she can. Cries continue to reach her ears, slipping out between incomprehensible mumbles which tug at something deep inside Fish, fostering emotions she'd rather swallow but cannot deny. Distracting herself from her internal dilemma, she peers around the bar and glares at the people gawking in confused fascination. One by one they all advert their gazes and return their attention back to their drinks.

“Come on, Little Red, there is some confusion we need to clear up.” Separating a fraction of an inch, Kristen follows suit, keeping her head bowed with a halo of hair surrounding her. Mascara lines track her cheeks, marks of fear and sorrow, further elucidating that the option Fish chose was indeed the wrong one.

“The booth in the corner, go sit down and I’ll be there momentarily,” Fish says softly, brushing Kristen’s hair back, resisting the urge to take her back in her arms. That would be too easy, explaining herself...Fish can’t even fathom how she will begin. With a wet sniffle, Kristen nods and shuffles away.

Seconds later, Fish slips in beside her, settling two glasses of water onto the table before twisting her body to face Kristen. Tears are something Fish commonly sees; remorseful criminals, grieving families, Oswald as of late. She has dealt with every variety; from crocodile to unstoppable rivers and yet Kristen’s cut her deeply. _It’s because they’re my fault,_ she realizes as she dips a napkin in her glass of water.

“I’m sorry,” Fish apologizes, lifting a hand to cup Kristen’s cheek, swiping away a tear with her thumb. She wants to laugh at the absurdity of a police captain apologizing to a criminal but she struggles to find a lick of humor. All her earlier emotions are replaced with a deep melancholy. “I’m sorry for what he did to you and for appearing as though I don’t care.”

Fish tilts Kristen’s head up and begins cleaning away the evidence of her tears. Shuffling closer she wipes the damp napkin across her cheekbone and down the side of her face. “The last time we met, you mentioned something about me having my own _big bad wolf_ ,” Fish smiles out the corner of her mouth, recalling the brazen way Kristen pinpointed the route of many issues, “and you were right. Her teeth didn’t bite as sharply as I fear yours did, although she did serve as an everlasting reminder.”

“There was this criminal,” Fish says, launching into her tale, “she was a lot like you; beautiful, sweet, smart. She immediately captured my eye.” Transferring the napkin to her other hand, she continues cleaning Kristen’s face, fingers lingering more than necessary. “Liza _pleaded_ for help, for my assistance, a way to break out of the underworld...so I gave it. She sat beside me day after day, back when I was only a detective, and for weeks I was blind to her true motives. She betrayed me, Little Red,” Fish conveys, cutting her story short, “and alongside my heart, she stole department secrets.”

“Here, drink this, it will help.” Fish transfers the clean glass of water into Kristen’s hands before pressing her shoulder blades into the back of the booth. Liza has been on mind too much recently; with the similarities between the two women, it was unavoidable. A sigh parts Fish’s lips as she rubs her temples, soothing her brewing headache. “I told myself I wouldn’t be fooled again and that is what you saw tonight.” Angling her body, her fingers find their way back to the strands of Kristen’s hair, combing it into place, unable to restrain the small smile spreading across her face. Kristen stares across at her, red-rimmed eyes wide open, cheeks colored with the softest shade of pink. “I wasn’t leaving because I don’t care, it’s _because_ I do.”

The inside of Kristen's mouth feels like glue; she can't even pry her tongue from the roof of her mouth to speak properly, both alcohol and tears causing her to dehydrate too quickly. Taking slow, careful slips from the glass Fish gave her, Kristen tries to calm herself and come back from the edge she was teetering on, her heels hanging backwards off an emotional cliff she wasn't ready to fall backwards into.

Who would she have run to for help? Lee would be as embarrassing as this breakdown is (though not as severely humiliating…) and Eddie is _beyond_ preoccupied and not a viable option for _anything_ right now. So grateful to Fish for sitting her down, Kristen knows part of the reason she can't speak is because of raw emotion itself, complicating every thought in her mind; each time she tries to settle her accidentally disturbed inner turmoils and compose herself, Fish touches her again, each motion tender and sympathetic, each one stabbing Kristen through the heart with _shock_ that anyone could care so much, despite having every reason not to. (And now she knows the reasons _not to_ are immensely personal for Fish, yet she's here, trying to soothe Kristen, subdue her panic.)

"Thank you," Kristen chokes out, reaching up to clutch the back of Fish's hand the next time she strokes Kristen's hair, after Kristen tries to shake off another shockwave of the permanent shadows of terror scorched into her mind. She almost drops the glass mid-sip when the horror of what could happen to her for _telling someone_ about what happened strikes lightning-bolt painful in her mind. _They're all dead, they couldn't hurt me for confessing, I've killed every single person who has ever hurt me, I'm safe, I'm safe,_ she reminds herself, mortified that she's spilled water on herself and started crying again.

Fish reaches out to wipe at her face, and as welcomed as the touch would be, Kristen shoves the back of her hand over her mouth, choking back the heaving, pathetic sobs.

"I'm fine, I promise, I-I'm so sorry," she hastily explains away her state. "This is…you're too kind, but I need to calm myself down, too, or it won't stick." She grabs the napkin and wipes her face off, violently scrubbing at her skin, the grazed rash she's creating doesn't differ the pain but it's more stabilizing than the chemicals and repressed fears surging through her veins.

Eyes watery herself, and jaw dropped open slightly, the look Fish gives Kristen of concern is heart-wrenching. _I don't deserve it, you don't have to,_ Kristen almost says.

"Please forgive me, Captain. I am _beyond_ mortified. It might be a good idea if I start curbing my drinking," she laughs sadly, hoping Fish might laugh it off, too, but there's no amusement in her face. Folding the napkin up nicely proves difficult with Kristen's fingers shaking, so she balls it up and tosses it back on the table. Biting her lip, the last few tears cling to her lashes, and it's strangely more calming to _not_ be able to see through the blur of salt water and melting pigmentation. Seeing things for what they are is necessary, but it never comes easily to Kristen.

"I'm sorry about your girlfriend," Kristen whispers, too tired to not speak plainly, hoping the term is correct, based on the story she'd been told. "I use people for a living, and I still find what you've said she did _abhorrent_. Not with love, you can't…you should never hurt those you love. Or who love you."

Gaining composure, Kristen drops a hand to Fish's knee; forgetting their different in frame and size, her fingers are almost halfway up her thigh. _Not_ what Kristen had meant to do—she was trying to give a reassuring touch in return _(Then why did you touch her legs?_ her self-conscious side screeches, and with good point…). Hoping her awkwardness is repressed and disguised well-enough, Kristen does find her knee and pulls back after patting it, staring down to avoid eye contact.

"Love is the only thing that _matters_ ," Kristen adds, voice hollowed out from speaking from the depth of her heart. "It's the only answer to every question. I truly believe that, even after everything. It's important to hold on to a spark of light when you choose to walk into the dark."

Looking around, trying to shake off the trance of thought and liquor, Kristen flashes a smile, her eyes positioned over Fish's shoulder, instead of meeting them. "I'm sorry my foolish behavior reminded you of someone who hurt you. I don't know what I'm playing at anymore—the game feels the same but the rules feel different."

Ready to catch her eyes, Kristen purses her lips and forces a smile. "Whatever you think of my embarrassing antics, please know I wanted nothing like what she did. To be truthful…I enjoyed our last conversation and I wanted…I just wanted to speak to you again, but I've…that opportunity has come and passed. Thank you for…the reassurance. You're a…phenomenal… _wonderful_ …" Kristen trails off. "Who knew justice could also be kind?" She feels herself flush; God, she must be so transparent, but it's impossible to not crumble under Fish's gaze—impossible to evade, impossible to conceive why anyone would, if she's this understanding. How could anyone betray someone so… _loving?_

Fish giggles into the back of her hand and for a second the sound shocks her. She can’t remember the last time she laughed so earnestly, a real laugh, not one of mirthless retort. It’s a welcome surprise. It seems as though Kristen can bring her more than hours of confusion; this is truly a treasure to be savoured. Unable to restrain her smile, not that she wants to, Fish, with a shake of her head and a lick to her lips, trains it in Kristen’s direction.

“You continue to surprise me, Little Red,” she comments, savoring the sight of a deepened blush and widened eyes. _That’s a dangerous look._ Fish’s smile shifts into a smirk as she cocks her head to the side, earrings swaying like a pendulum. They’re not customary for her position but Fish can’t seem to part with them; the same goes for her nails, they are a part of her. “I didn’t take you for a slogan creator.”

Kristen’s brows quirk, twitching in such an adorable manner that Fish begins to laugh again. She’d love to be able to thank her for her kind comments on love and whatever else, but for now those words evade her. She has a quip to make and she’s not ready to let go of this joyus mood. _It’s been too long since I’ve been happy._

“ _Welcome_ to the GCPD—” Fish spreads her arms through the air and traces the underside of Kristen’s chin with her fingernail, throwing her a wink in the process, “—where _justice_ can also be kind.”

Kristen doesn't even have time to process how boggled she is that Fish is _joking around with her_ —the mood is infectious and Kristen bursts into laughter, trying to hide her giggles behind her knuckles, but it's not long until she's doubled over, red-faced and gasping for air, all the tension in her body exploded into amusement, fueled by the alcohol still coursing through her veins.

" _Stop_ ," she whines, long and intentionally comedic, "That's not fair!" She reaches out to playfully shove Fish, but completely misses. It doesn't matter—Fish still catches on to what she was attempting, and with a dramatic _oooh_ , she shakes her head back and forth at Kristen, warning with a wave of the finger that had just grazed Kristen's face. Bawling her fists into her skirt, Kristen hops in her seat and huffs. "Don't be mean, I was trying to be nice," she complains, mostly mocking, before dissolving into laughter again, her eyes stinging from wet mascara and tears, now from a completely different mood than her previous panicking.

Scooping her hair back, Kristen presses a hand to her sternum and tries to regain her composure for what feels like the millionth time that night. "It's nice to know I might have had a successful career at the GCPD after all!" she rolls her eyes and takes a sip of water before speaking again. "Thank you for making me smile," she says softly. "It's…it's much more preferable of a mood to be in, and a better note to end this disastrous evening of mine on." Wiping at her eyes, she laughs once more, body alight with a myriad of emotions and reactions all at once.

Ducking her head, Kristen can't help but grin, sure she's still blushing. "Thank you," she repeats, heart fluttering and the urge to bolt away making her legs twitch. Fish will probably dismiss her after this, and after Kristen makes it home and repairs her ego, at least she'll have the beautiful image of Fish laughing, head tipped back, smile wide, earrings swinging, her emotions extending right through how she moves her arms, the image brightening Kristen's heart in an instant.

“Nonsense, Little Red, there’s no need to thank me. Few things are more beautiful than a smile. I am glad I got to see yours.” Leaning back against the plush cushioning of the booth, Fish’s lips draw taut, ready to share another of her own but Kristen is still peering down into her lap, with her waves of hair falling over her shoulders. It is a darling sight, but it doesn’t compare to having Kristen’s eyes on her. With that thought in mind, Fish tucks a few strands of hair behind Kristen’s ear before she settles it on the underside of her jaw, encouraging her head to rise. “A smile should be shared, please don’t hide it.”

It wasn’t too long ago Fish would have been relieved to reach the ending of their encounter, only now she finds she doesn’t want her night to end. Blinking to re-establish eye contact, she strokes her thumb back and forth across Kristen’s cheek, following the trail of warmth. The action lasts barely a split second, but even as Fish folds her hands in her lap and rakes her nails across her palms, the residual heat from Little Red’s flushed face lingers.

“Now, I believe it is _my_ turn to thank you for your kind words and your earnesty. It’s sweet, as are you.” And she is, Fish realizes with absolute clarity. The emotive response about matters of love only serves to highlight that. Love, for the pain that it is or can cause, is the source of many things...and sometimes that pain is necessary.

A silent sigh parts her lips as she swipes her fingers across her brow. “I must say your company has been thoroughly enjoyed, but next time... _call_ first, unless you _like_ trying to surprise me. I’m two for two—you need to work harder if you want to catch me off guard, Little Red.” Fish smiles and it is as unguarded as Kristen’s own. She is aware their evening has reached its end and yet she makes no moves to leave.

“You know, I’ve been getting that a lot lately, “ Kristen intones, pursing her lips and looking at the ceiling. “ _Call first_. What ever happened to popping in to see old friends? It’s a new world we’re entering,” she laughs, hopping off the barstool. “Probably for the best if I start now figuring out how to try to live in it.”

Leaping forward, she touches Fish once, her palm meeting the back of Fish’s hand. “Until next time,” she says, flicking her eyes to meet Fish’s for a second before retreating away. “Maybe next time we’ll surprise each other still.”

Rushing out of the bar, Kristen can feel Fish’s eyes on her back, and it’s not till she’s down the street that she bends at the waist, heaves in lungfuls of air with her hands perched on her knees, trying to calm herself before…before _whatever_ she is supposed to do with her evening next.

Maybe she better go home and sleep all of her mistakes off. Or give the mayor a call. Or…no, no, she isn’t going to make bad _worse_ and go see Fox. There was no amount of information she could be paid in that would make her play _that_ gambit.

 _Thank god for Wally, honestly_ , she thinks, the cold air sobering her as it stings her cheeks on her walk home. At least he’s keeping Ed busy, and _away_ from Lucius. He’s a strange man himself, but he seems decent enough. _I guess I have the right to say that_ , Kristen ponders, studying yet again the scuff mark on her prized high-heeled shoes. _That at least Oswald Cobblepot does his best._

~~~

Standing at the kitchen counter, Ed stirs in the _exact_ quantities of tepid milk and sugar into Oswald’s morning coffee, finessing it in ways Oswald _himself_ lacks the patience to. The teaspoon chimes happily against the inner edge of the cup, tinkling as the liquid turns beige and Ed deems it satisfactory...well, as satisfactory as it can get without the use of high-end equipment. _Perhaps I should look into investing in a coffee machine,_ Ed muses as he sets to making his own beverage with slightly less care. _Oswald is likely to be around often. It wouldn’t go to waste...but which type? There’s—_

Ed’s thoughts are disrupted by Oswald and the repetitive jostling of the newspaper, clasped tightly in his hands. It’s shaken again and again, filling the apartment with a mock rendition of rustling leaves, only _crisper_. Oswald’s breakfast remains untouched: food, cutlery… _everything_ forgotten, bar the crumpling paper. Ed sighs. He had hoped that Oswald’s unsettled air would have dissipated by morning. After the past three days of them being thoroughly wrapped up in one another, he was surprised Oswald had the _energy_ to spare on such behavior, but here it is, growing before Ed’s very eyes. A small, encaged cyclone, longing to be free.

Walking up behind Oswald, Ed shunts the cups of coffee onto the table and presses kisses up and down the right side of Oswald’s neck. “You, my dear, are restless,” he says, shifting his attention to the other side: trailing his lips, nuzzling his cheek, looping his arms in a gentle hug. “No matter how many times you shake that paper, the words will read the same.”

Oswald breathes sharply, his huffed breath dances across Ed’s forearms before he tosses the paper and splays his palm on the back of Ed’s head, drawing him down into a kiss. Ed has to rise to the tips of his toes to accommodate the shift and he curls his tongue alongside Oswald’s own.

“You’re right,” Oswald whispers against Ed’s lips, brushing them together gently. “I am restless, but it’s not your fault.” Ed’s eyes slip closed when Oswald begins to card his fingers through his hair. The tender touches bring a comfort words cannot. Ed had tossed around the notion that he may have _mistakenly_ done something to shift Oswald into this mood, that he might have said something that stirred memories Oswald did not want to face, or his actions weren’t what was anticipated, but Oswald calmed those spiraling thoughts in an instant, proving, _yet again_ , that he is Ed’s perfect match.

“Talk to me, Oswald,” Ed almost begs when the silence stretches between them.

“I think we need some time apart—”

“I—”

“I _already_ know what you’re going to say, but Ed...come, sit down.” There is a slight bite to Oswald’s tone, one Ed doesn’t want to argue with, so with a peck to Oswald’s cheek, Ed does as instructed. He plops himself down and scoots his chair forward till their knees brush together and waits as still and as patiently as possible, for Oswald to gather his thoughts and start speaking again.

“This will be good for the both of us,” Oswald starts, choosing his words carefully. “The time we spend apart will only serve to make our time spent together all the sweeter. It’s not that I don’t love spending time in your company, because I _do..._ and nothing has changed between us.” Seeking out Ed’s hand, Oswald locks their palms together, earnesty shared in every touch and soft spoken word. “I love you, Ed. I love being in your presence, but I am not the type of man who can keep himself locked in one place for long and while it has— _you_ _have—_ brought me nothing but joy, I need to stretch my legs and recuperate. At least for a few hours.”

“Oswald,” Ed says, as he trails his tongue across his bottom lip, starving off the smile twitching in his cheeks. “If you had let me finish speaking, I was going to say...I _agree_.”

Oswald blinks seven times in rapid succession, mouth agape, and Ed laughs into his fingertips. As of late, Oswald has become fairly proficient in discerning the top layer of Ed’s thoughts by the slightest tilt of his brows or tweak of his lips. It’s not often he manages to be the one to catch Oswald off-guard.

“Don’t look so surprised. It’d have to happen sooner or later—us spending time apart, not the agreeing thing,” Ed says, waving his free hand through the air, tightening his other around Oswald’s. “There’s a friend who has been rather insistent to see me, someone I have put off visiting for—” Ed pauses, fingertips hovering over his lips as he works out when it was Fox _first_ mentioned Ed should pay him a visit, “—twelve days now.”

The length of time wouldn't generally concern Ed, as it hardly ever existed before. If Fox hinted at wanting to see him, Ed would have been there almost instantly. _I have been rather distracted as of late._ “I’ll see you later though, won’t I? You’re coming back, right?”

As soon as the last of Ed’s words leave his mouth, Oswald instantly springs into action, tugging him forward so he can brush their lips together. “Of _course_ I’m returning,” he says into Ed’s mouth. “You can’t keep me away for long,” he presses onto Ed’s knuckles, kissing each one twice, lingering slightly.

The past few days has seen this occur often, with Oswald pouring his love into each and every action, resulting in a semi-permanent blush staining Ed’s cheeks. It’s endearing and utterly romantic. Ed cherishes it all.

“My love,” Oswald continues as he sits back in his chair, brushing his thumb over the skin his lips just left, “I will always return to you. I have a pre-standing luncheon every week, one I cannot miss, but I _will_ be back. It’ll also give me a chance to grab a few sets of clothes too, as I can’t very well wear your robe every day, as comfortable as it is.”

Ed raises his brows and flicks his eyes up and down Oswald, shaking his head as he laughs silently. “Okay, okay...clothes _might_ come in handy. I do miss your suits. They are very snazzy, especially lately.”

“See, more benefits,” Oswald chimes in, eyes sparkling, before he turns his attention back to his rapidly cooling breakfast, without releasing his hold on Ed’s hand. After a minute and a small nudge from Oswald, Ed does the same, smiling over the top of his fork, as a counter begins ticking in the back of his mind, counting down the time till he’ll be back in Oswald’s presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fish is too good! And she has to deal with so much nonsense from everyone…  
> and be careful, Kristen, it seems you're starting to get in over your head…
> 
> And as for the boys, it's good to maintain friendships as much as romantic relationships.  
> It just depends on who your friends are…
> 
> (Also, Wally, what the hell? Eat your boyfriend's breakfast for once! That took effort to make!)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and we can't wait to bring you chapter 12, and the introduction of the next major steps in the plot. Let us know how much you're looking forward to finally meeting Lucius Fox, King of Gotham!


	12. Your Inamorato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward meets a friend; Oswald meets a friend, and the boys reunite again at the end of their respective day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: there is mention of Ed's self-harm in this chapter during Oswald's talk with Tabitha, nothing too graphic or detailed.
> 
> Happy reading! <3

Checking to make sure his tie is pinned flat and smoothed down, Fox waits for Ed to cross the hall and open the door to his study. 

“Look at that,” Fox smiles as he juts his arm out, pulling the sleeve back an inch to look down at his wristwatch and back at Edward. “You’re as punctual as ever—to the dot. Really, Edward,” he continues, voice rich with his amusement. Sliding his chair backwards, he stands up and makes his way around the desk to meet Ed. “You know you never need to call first. You’re always welcome to stop in whenever you like. My door is always open to you.”

He looks Ed up and down and smiles again, shakes his hand and pulls him into a hug, his palm spread flat and slowly drags them down the center of Ed’s back.

“So, what have you been up to? You must have some stories to tell, since the last I heard from you, what with Gordon and Bullock out of bounds. My apologies for their lack of respect,” he smoothes Ed’s jacket lapel down before gesturing for them to sit together in the chairs placed in front of Lucius’ desk, so they’re not seated with the desk dividing them. He always prefers that he and Ed sit as equals during their meetings, and the chair placement does a nice job of conveying that.

Ed shuffles on his feet, eyebrows pinched, and tugs at the ends of his sleeves before unbuttoning his jacket to sit. “It’s quite alright,” he says, smiling as he lolls his head to the side, “one must deal with a couple of _monkeys_ when one runs a zoo.” At that he laughs and relaxes into the plush seating, taking pride in the small grin he put on his friend’s face. It has been _way_ too many months— _eight and a half_ , Ed notes—since he spent any time in Fox’s company. He couldn’t even think of a reputable excuse— _prior to Oswald_ —other than that he had been busy scheming. _How times have changed._

Now there is a much more _positive_ reason for his absence.

Flicking his eyes from Fox’s face, Ed gazes around the room, taking stock of the rich furnishings, decadent decor and the way a handful of the knick-knacks on Fox’s desk have been rearranged. He frowns as his fingers twitch in his lap, willing him to correct it, to rearrange the room back to its former, more _practical_ , layout.

Ed swallows down the impulse and mashes his lips together, choosing to focus on things more appealing to the eye, like the way Foxy’s gold-painted nails perfectly accentuate his tie. Fox was always a man of style and worth, but humble too, for someone in his position. It was what endeared Ed to him many years ago. His intelligence and guile, another factor.

“I’m in love,” Ed blurts, bouncing once as he slaps his hands on his knees, bringing himself back to his present setting. “I know, I know, it’s surprising, but no less remarkable. Oswald, he—” The smile on Ed’s face steals the words from his tongue. His eyes fall closed as he recalls the way Oswald kissed him _so thoroughly_ before leaving the apartment that morning, with the promise of a _delightful_ evening whispered against Ed’s lips. “I haven’t felt like this before. He’s my soulmate, Foxy. Of that I am certain.”

Fox’s eyes widen and then he smiles, each facial expression shift slow and deliberate. “You’re seeing someone?” Ed nods, that dreamy look in his eyes still present. “Well, this is new and exciting for you. And not just anyone, it sounds like—but a _soulmate_. Imagine that. Congratulations are certainly in order!” 

Fox looks around the room, first to the left, then the right, humming as he purses his lips. “Sadly, I don’t think I’ve kept anything around to toast _with_. I could— _leave_ and find us something—” he gestures behind him, towards the door with his thumb, to which Ed vehemently shakes his head.

“Ahhh, I see: you don’t want me to leave because you want to tell me all about him, don’t you?” Fox remarks, raising his eyebrows and half-smiling again. “ _Oswald_. What an interesting name; you don’t hear that one much. Definitely not as common as _Edward_ …rarer than _Lucius_ ,” Fox considers, looking over his lashes as he ponders the situation. “Think I’ve only run into one _Oswald_ in my life. Not a pleasant individual, truth be told—though obviously that has nothing to do with the reputation of your _inamorato_.” Fox leans back, weaving his fingers together and spaying his palms against his chest. “So, go on—tell me all about him. It’s been such a long time coming!”

Ed claps in excitement and a broad smile spreads across his face. He has longed to speak to someone about Oswald, someone who wouldn’t dismiss half of his tumbled thoughts and proclamations. _Thank you, Fox, for providing me with this opportunity,_ he says to himself as he bounces on his chair and blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

“Okay, okay…so you have either _met_ my Oswald, or they all share similar traits, because unpleasant describes him well. Not entirely—” he rushes to say, hands waving through the air, praying that Foxy doesn’t get the wrong idea, “—as a whole, Oswald is simply wonderful. He has such an _air_ about him, a hidden strength, and I thank the stars, I _thank them_ , for allowing someone so multilayered, so romantic, someone so distinct and intriguing, to enter my life.”

Leaning further back in his chair, chin dropping to his chest, Ed rubs the pads of his fingers over his scarred knuckles, caressing the place Oswald’s lips worshipped only hours ago. His skin prickles: a sensation which often occurs whenever Ed thinks about him, an outward response that mirrors the vast range of emotions alive within him.

“He looks at me like I’m something… _worth_ looking at. I’m not some dismissed flash in the corner of his eye, but rather the painting which has captured it…and yes, he can be dictatorial and prone to a certain crabbiness which is almost endearing— _especially_ in the mornings, but those traits are the base layers on his own canvas, as fastidiousness and histrionics are to mine.”

Ed laughs, willing the tingling in his eyes to go away as he breathes into his knuckles, taking a few minutes to compose himself. Fox hasn’t said a word since Ed started speaking, rather bestowing him his quietude and respect, without complaint. _Always such a gentlemen, Foxy._ This is why they got along so well, why their friendship, no matter how distant in recent times, is never strained. Fox understands him…one of only a few people able to do so.

Rising to his feet, shaking his arms, Ed heads for Fox’s desk and begins to reorganize the ornaments and trinkets back to their former positions, blathering away.

“You would not _believe_ the struggles we had in the beginning. I pursued him for weeks—unknowingly, of course. Same thing I did to you, Foxy.”

“You were rather _direct_. I’m glad to see some things never change,” Fox says, nodding at Ed to continue.

“Oswald, he…he had less direction than a compass caught adrift in a magnetic storm. He trudged about from place to place, head bowed, watching the shuffling of his feet. After a few weeks, and _many_ failed attempts at nabbing his attention, I kind of, may have—no, I did, and it certainly wasn’t the best grounds for a _real_ first introduction—kidnapped him after he was attacked.” Ed explains, disjointedly, glancing at Fox out the corner of his eye, finding only amusement.

 _Oh, good. Good._ Ed couldn’t put a finger on the reason he was apprehensive over Fox’s opinion. Perhaps it was something to do with the way Kristen first reacted, telling him how _bad_ his actions were, or the way Oswald once repeated it often. They were right, of course. Kidnapping someone with whom you hope to have a romantic relationship with only proved to put them three spaces back before they had even begun. _We’ve come so far since then._

No longer does Ed see any speck of fear or apprehension in Oswald’s eyes. It has been replaced with adoration, humor and a _slight_ inquisitiveness as though Oswald is trying to silently delve his way into Ed’s very being and read the words inscribed within him. _An instruction manual_ , Ed thinks, smirking to himself. If such a thing existed, he would have poured through it years ago, rather than perusing endless self-questioning.

Lapsing further into silence, Ed repositions the last of the knick-knacks and shuffles back into his seat, feeling content with the state of the room.

“It was thanks to your two monkeys—the rerun duo—which allowed this relationship between Oswald and I to form,” Ed says as he bites the tip of his finger and rolls his head in Fox’s direction. “Will you express my gratitude and reiterate that they are to never target him again?”

“It’s me would needs to apologize to you, Edward.” Fox runs a fingertip down one of the grooves in his chair, cleaning the dust out of the crack. “The grapevine says your former roommate was almost killed that day, as well. All the people in this town who are connected to me know and respect the ironclad rule that they are not to touch anyone I consider a friend, or anyone close to those chosen few, something Bullock and his newlywed know well.” Ed looks at him and Fox wonders why he often looks blank-brained when he’s listening to Fox speak. The difficulty with communication is perhaps to blame. It’s obvious Ed is listening, so Fox continues.

“The disrespect they showed in continuing with their so-called _initiation rite_ not only exposed that they loyalties are no longer exclusive to me—I don’t order my people to do such brutish things, marching around, threatening to kill random civilians, regardless of _their_ employer—but it could have brought harm to you, for which I’ve wanted to personally express _my_ gratitude—hence my call to you—in you informing me of their repeated and unacceptable behavior. The fact that they threatened Miss Red _twice_ is just terrible. I know she wasn’t the intended target the first time; why they targeted her _later_ is beyond me. I hope you both are faring better now, knowing that both of them are removed from my payroll _and_ cut off from my protection. Should they strike again, I will—”

Ed almost raises out of his chair, about to start talking again, but Fox speaks over him.

“So, I’m assuming the Lady Red introduced you to Oswald? You should be grateful to her and not those lowlifes…”

“No,” Ed shakes his head side to side, glasses rocking in motion. “No,” he repeats, firmer. “I introduced me— _myself_ to Oswald. Red didn’t do that. _I_ did.” Burrowing his gaze into the to century-old rug beneath his feet, Ed gnaws on his bottom lip. _Didn’t I already speak about this?_ The question loops several times before Ed breaks free of the cycle and addresses Fox once more. _“_ And it wasn’t Red who was attacked _twice_. It was _Oswald_. Red…she was an unfortunate statistic of the first encounter, an outlier, not the primary objective. She wasn’t even _there_ the second time. There were only four of us—five, if you include your brief appearance on the phone.”

“I’m sorry, Edward,” Fox says softly, reaching out to clasp Ed’s hand, giving him the gentlest of pats. “Forgive my mistake and lack of understanding. When you called, you never specified _who_ it was that you wanted to keep safe. I should have—”

“Stop,” Ed interrupts, before mirroring Fox, reaching out to soothe his disquietude. “You didn’t have all the pieces. It’s my fault, not yours. I fear I boggled the story. I just—Oswald…he…let me start at the very beginning.” 

With Fox relaxing back into his chair, folding his hands together, Ed rattles off the list of events in chronological order, counting each moment off his fingers. He speaks about how soul-struck he felt when seeing Oswald in the file room, how he botched his first attempt of conversing with him in Jervis’s coffee shop, how he obsessively followed Oswald through the streets of Gotham desperate to know more about him, and how he rescued Oswald from the middle of the GCPD. Fox listens intently, nodding at the correct intervals, laughing harmoniously at others. A singular, rapt audience.

“It wasn’t until Jimbo and Bullock attacked Oswald in the alleyway—Jim could have caused him significant brain damage with how _forcefully_ he rammed him into the wall—that Oswald began to bestow me with _any_ sort of positive attention. For weeks I had to adhere to a new, heavily delineated list of rules: no showing up unannounced, no incessant messaging, no house visits, no touching…until I saved him.”

Ed is still learning to strike an even balance between the ways in which he used to live and conduct his life, and the new social constructs Oswald has taught him, most which condense into a fundamental basis of _mutual_ respect. It’s never-ending, and once seemed pointless, however Oswald’s comments on how much he has improved and how well he is doing revoked Ed’s dismissive attitude. It has been beneficial and rewarding.

“Since then, things have been phenomenal. Oswald accompanied Red and myself on an evening outing to the Sirens. Later that night we—Oswald and I,” Ed specifies, “spent hours cuddled on Red’s balcony, recounting our personal histories, _kissing_ , before heading back to my place. I— _we_ —” Ed presses his fingertips to his lips, effectively trapping his words in his mouth. Some things are private. Private things are best left unsaid, but Fox raises his brows and Ed’s cheeks stain with embarrassment. He undoubtedly caught on.

“ _Well_ ,” Fox chuckles at Ed’s flushed face and clamped hand over his mouth. “It seems you’re having a whirlwind romance. What a confusing story, though…” he pauses, furrowing his brow. “Not _that_ part, Edward,” he reassures his old friend, shaking his head slightly at the humorous look on Ed’s face. “I know you’ve waited a long time to meet a man who would love you to the depths and lengths of emotion you always dreamed of—and I always have believed you will find it, for you are more than deserving of that kind of happiness.”

He leans forward, drumming his fingers together. “There’s parts of your story I—” he moves back again, swallowing his words down uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t say anything, please ignore me. It’s almost stepping out of bounds, to question the details of a relationship I’m not a participant in, but I’m concerned…no, no, again, it’s none of my business. So how long have you two been seeing each other? If I remember correctly, that phone call was only about two _weeks_ ago…”

“It was _twelve_ days ago,” Ed conveys, correcting Fox’s assessment. “Is that—that’s not a… _bad_ thing, is it? The length of time?” Mashing his lips together, Ed peers down at his hands, now grasping the fabric of his trousers. _Twelve days ago…._ He doesn’t like to recall a majority of the events which occurred that day, rather choosing to focus on more _positive_ things, like the new developments Ed’s heroics garnered him. However, in divulging the entirety of his relationship to Fox, Ed is unable to avoid the harrowing reminder of the way Oswald had sent him away, for it was that event which spiraled Ed into a brief bout of instability, forcing him to have an altercation with his alter ego. The speckled scars lining his knuckles are an everlasting reminder.

“It feels like I’ve known him a lifetime…Oswald and I, we—he could attest to that.” Ed shuffles in his chair and rubs his hands together. “ _Technically_ , we’ve only been in a relationship for—” he breathes sharply out of his nose before squeaking— “four days, but I’ve known him _several_ months. This isn’t one of _those_ situations.” Lives can change in a day. People are born, others die. It’s almost inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, what matters is what people make of their time…or so Ed believed.

“Is this what has you concerned, Foxy?” Ed asks, addressing his friend. “Kristen mentioned something similar, she said not to lose myself to him…and I’m _not—_ ” Ed says, over-enunciating the last word as he snaps his head back. “I’m not…”

“Edward, I—” Fox runs his tongue over his lips; they’re edging on the painful side of dry. “Four days is…right about the amount of time I would expect to hear someone say they've been in a relationship for when they declare they’ve met their soulmate.”

“Really?” Ed asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. He looks so hopeful.

“Yes. It’s just enough time to still be riding a chemical high from…the newness of _love_ and _relations_ and all that sort of business. It’s also just the perfect amount of time to not know someone’s bad side yet, though it sounds as if you’re well-acquainted with Mr. Oswald—say, what is his last name?”

Ed jumps to answer but before he can, Fox adds, “Perhaps my expectations are unrealistic—I’m known for my soft touch, when it comes to those I care for, after all. But it pains me to hear that the man you adore had to sustain a _head injury_ to start to see you in a favorable light. While I’m sure kidnapping him may have put him on the defensive, he still sounds incredibly…controlling. Does he move in our circles, or is he a civilian? I can’t make sense of him at all, unless…the odds I _know him_ are possible. It’s not as if the city is overrun with gay men.” Ed looks surprised by his boldness—Gotham is forward-thinking enough of a place that no one minds much the differences in the people that make up its population, but few talk about those differences in plain language. Fox doesn’t hesitate—why disguise or allude to the truth when something is a known fact? “There’s not _that_ many of us that I might not at least know an ex of his, even if I don’t know him from any other avenue of Gotham City life.”

“I—I—” Ed stutters, blinking rapidly. Fox is asking too many questions, making too many comments and assumptions that Ed is uncertain of which matter to address first. “Oswald—his last name is Cobblepot—doesn’t have any former romantic partners,” Ed states disjointedly, before cocking his head to the side, eyes unfocused, as he stares blankly across the room. _Does he?_ They’ve never had this discussion, paramours, flings, entanglements, sexual and romantic history. _Isn’t that something partners do? Are there people out there that know him better than I do?_ Ed fiddles with the buttons on his cuffs and compiles a mental list of topics to broach to Oswald at a later date.

“You’d like him, Fox,” Ed says, trying to shift the topic to something lighter and less weighted. “You’re both _very_ similar.” His tone is lit with slight amusement, as he realizes, not for the first time, the homogeneity between all the men he has ever desired. “Oswald is smart, perceptive, and tenacious—these are attributes you both share, not to mention the underlying care and tenderness. He could have very well been seated where you are now— _metaphorically_ , that is. If Oswald was king of Gotham, he would not reside in what is formerly Wayne Manor.”

Fox blinks. He starts, then stops, then blinks again. “If Oswald _Cobblepot_ was king of Gotham, he would be _dead_. And that’s putting it lightly. He—” Fox makes sure to take in a deep breath here, choosing his words carefully.

“I know him, Edward. I’ve never met him, but…Alfred and I have long assumed he _was_ dead, since he vanished from the underworld without a trace. Bludgeoning his way to the very top one day and…a ghost the next. The man managed to amass so many enemies in such short time; I know there’s a few hunters who _still_ wish to enact their revenge on him, not to mention Donna Essen’s loyalists and—” Fox gapes for a minute, then drops his arms loosely at his sides. “No wonder Bullock and Gordon went after him. They were bounty hunting. For who I—I don’t know yet—”

Ed’s eyebrows are in the midst of telling their own _story_ , what with how quickly they move from shock to distress. He tries to interrupt Fox, but Fox cuts in before he has to listen to one of Ed’s confusing barrages.

“When you said you divulged your personal histories to each other, what exactly did that conversation entail? What did he confess to you, Ed?”

Instead of answering, Ed opts for biting the tips of his fingers and scrapes his teeth against his nails, listening to the grinding sound filling his head, muting the majority of his _quieter_ concerns. “I’m not certain that is information you should be privy to,” Ed voices into the palm of his hand. To his consternation, Fox continues to stare at him in the most unsettling of ways. Ed grimaces and rises to his feet, unable to stay stationary in the chair any longer. He paces back and forth, counting his steps, keeping them even, then spins on his heel to repeat it in the opposite direction.

“You—you aren’t going to hurt him, are you? Oswald is no threat to you, he gave up that life many years ago.” Ed can’t bring himself to look in Fox’s direction, for fear of the expression on his friend’s face. _Where did I go wrong?_ He never intended for their afternoon to unravel in this manner; Ed only wanted to share his joyus news, not question things he had previously both considered and dismissed. At his side, Ed’s free hand rotates back and forth, and he inhales a staggered breath.

“You believe me, don’t you? Oswald is a good man.” _Surely he knows that,_ Ed prays silently to himself. “His past doesn’t define him. Who he was, is no longer who he is.” That is a lesson Ed continues to struggle with, for his own past is how he came to be the man he is today, similar to how Oswald dictated how he receded from a life of crime, to one of paperwork and files. Pressing his fingertips into his eyes, Ed exhales sharply.

“The Penguin is dead, please don’t take Oswald away from me, too—not that I ever had the Penguin, I only mean…I love him, Fox. He makes me happy.”

Fox almost rises to his feet to reach out for Edward, then thinks better of it. Too much will only make Ed’s freak-out worsen. “I never said I was going to hurt him,” he says softly, letting concern at Ed’s misunderstanding permeate his voice. “He may still have a lot of enemies, but I’m not one of them. Like I said, Ed, I don’t even know the man personally. Please, sit. Frightening you this was was _not_ my intent. Do you not recall me promising that nothing bad from my own hand will ever befall those you care about?”

Ed complies and sits down, spindly body landing in a heap, shoulders sagging. His mouth is open and his gaze distant, lost in his own distress. 

“This is too important for me to bite my tongue—I’m not concerned about Oswald Cobblepot’s former life,” Fox explains. “I’m concerned about what I know he’s capable of—and I’m concerned about _you_ and your well-being, now that you’re intimately involved. Neither you nor I are exemplary _moral_ , and I wouldn’t even try to claim I’m anything but what you see before you—but…there’s a _reason_ he has no former romantic partners. You and I both execute those we must, those who have disappointed us, but Oswald…he’s just a _sadist_. He specializes in betrayal—in coaxing his way into people’s lives, unsuspectingly perceptive, even _tender_ , until he achieves what he needed to use them for and _discards_ them. Usually _violently_.”

Fox rests his hands on his knees and stares at the carpet. Hopefully what he has to say will resonate. “Love blinds, Edward. Love is blind, and it’s why it’s beautiful, but it also ensnares, it also distorts. Not being able to see clearly can lead to the most painful of downfalls. I’m worried about you. This wasn’t the happiness I hoped for you for so long.”

“Y-you don’t know him like I do. Oswald wouldn’t betray me. He loves me.” Ed whines in anguish, desperate to convince Fox—convince _himself._ All the words Fox has spoken digs deeper and deeper into every corner of Ed’s mind. Where serenity once lie unrestrictedly, a blanket of incertitude is tossed over it, contorting his happiness. “Oswald…he—I—you don’t know what it is you are speaking of. He didn’t wake up one day and decide to fall in love with me. He—”

_What if that’s what Oswald wants you to believe?_

Ed recoils at the voice in his head, eyes widening before narrowing, breath caught and held. His pulse hammers in his ears and Ed is washed away, alongside a tumbling wave of nauseating panic. _No, no no no no no._

 _Hello,_ Ed’s darker self hisses, cheerfully. A smile tugs at Ed’s mouth, one that is not his own. Clamping down on his lips, he whimpers. _You can’t be naive enough to think Oswald truly cares for you, can you? You, who has spent his entire life playing games and tossing tricks, can’t tell when he is being fooled? Why am I not surprised? You always were a lost cause without me._

Ed shakes his head back and forth in small, quick movements, and digs his nails into his knuckles, tearing into his skin, doing anything he can to offset the voice in his head. His breath stutters, forced in and out between the gaps in his teeth. Quick. Sharp. _Erratic._

“Go away,” Ed whispers under breath, repeating it twice, voice growing in desperation.

_Foxy speaks truths. Don’t you find it odd that Oswald fell in love with you so suddenly? That he forgave your stalking, your disrespect? You became useful. What better way is there to control someone, than to give them what they want most?_

“You’re wrong!” Ed bellows, ripping himself out of his chair. It clatters to the ground behind him and Ed whips around, startled by the noise. He slaps a hand over his heart and concentrates on every contraction until it begins to settle and the monster within him fades. Returning to pacing the room, Ed pinches and rubs the pad of his thumb over the scar on his throat, distracting himself from the piercing gaze he can feel boring into him, clawing beneath the layers of his skin. Attacks from inside and out. _No,_ Ed snaps at himself. _Foxy isn’t attacking me._

“C—” Ed’s words die on his tongue. He clears his throat and tries again. “Can we—can we speak about— _do_ something else? _Please_ Foxy. I don’t…” Ed trails off and raps his index finger on his forehead, striking it eight times. “ _Please._ ”

The only betrayal of the mask of calmness Fox always tries to wear around Ed is one, simple slip: he grips the arms of his chair tightly, out of fear, or something close to it. Ed isn’t screaming at him; he’s not speaking to him at all. No, Fox has had years to witness this.

Ed is yelling at himself. More specifically, from what Fox has ascertained, it’s _another version_ of Ed.

He knows the construct—they’ve spoken before. Ed insists they are the same man, and also not. Fox and this “entity” have conversed—is ”conversed” still the correct word? It’s a little confusing to try to find the right terminology for his friend’s affliction. Hard to diagnosis as well, though Fox makes no claim to be an expert at psychology. The other personality is clearly a symptom of Ed’s underlying problems with psychosis, though Fox doesn’t discount that it seems induced by trauma, for triggers, such as questioning the safety of Ed’s involvement with ‘the Penguin,’ seems to instigate the switch.

Waiting a moment before replying, to make sure that the desperate, sad-looking man before him is _actually_ the man he’s used to seeing, Fox bites his lip and relaxes his grip on the armrests.

“Of course we can—you only ever need say the word, and we can do whatever you’d like. I’m glad you’re not storming out of here…I really did overstep some lines there, I’m afraid, and I’m _sorry_. I truly am. What I thought was my concern for your well-being…well, it came off wrong, and I hope you can forgive me. And that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

Ed’s still touching the scar on his throat—astounding, that an _eating utensil_ did that; how much force was applied?—and Fox stands up out of his chair.

“How about a game of chess? Always reminds me of the old times, when you first introduced yourself to me. There’s no one I enjoy playing with more, did you know that?” He starts dragging the table over, back to Ed, not waiting for a response. Carefully…carefully…so as not to dislodge any of the pieces…and then they can begin.

Ed scurries to pick up his chair, keeping his eyes downcast to avoid glancing in the mirror adorning the wall. Why Fox chose to have a mirror in his office, Ed will never know, but it’s odd and he doesn’t like it. He’s never liked them. His frame vibrates as he plops himself down and nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose, sucking in lungfuls of air, hoping to rid himself of his jitteriness.

“Yes. Thank you,” Ed conveys through an exhaled breath as he fiddles with the white pieces, repositioning them in a perfect line. Chess will help fix whatever is wrong with him. A game of logic and radical thinking, dictated by a preordained set of precise and familiar rules, is the _ideal_ antidote to his spell of incertitude. He’ll be able to gather his wits again, and end the day on a more befitting note, before heading home to Oswald.

 _I hope he’s had a much better afternoon,_ Ed thinks as he picks up his pawn and shunts it to f4. His fingertips lingering, rocking the piece back and forth before he nods and folds his hands in his lap.

“Okay, Foxy, your move.”

~~~

Clutching the takeout bag of thai food, Oswald inches around another corner of the GCPD, desperate to avoid both Fish _and_ Zsasz. Most of his co-workers know better than to trap him in a meaningless social interaction; they can nod a _hello_ at each other and be on their way, pleasantries not extending past acknowledgements. But heaven help him if he has to suffer through a conversation with _either_ Fish or Zsasz right now—not after the last few days. He deserves that much privacy.

Tabitha’s office isn’t far now; he might have taken a break from work, but there was no point in skipping his weekly lunch with her. Rolling around in bed with Ed all day was perfectly fine—good—excellent… _phenomenal_ , really…but he did need a little break before he went stir-crazy. Even Ed had known that. Perhaps Ed knew how to accommodate Oswald more than he’d given his boyfriend credit for, back when Ed _pestered_ him all the damn time with coffees and painkillers…

Oswald raps his knuckles on the office door in the pattern he and Tabitha use to signal that it’s each other coming to call. Her distance, almost raspy _Yeah, yeah, come in_ sounds out from behind the door, and he’s not shocked to see her bent over a microscope, jotting down notes beside her, without even looking.

“Hello,” he greets her bluntly, dropping the bag on the opposite counter (for paperwork only) and eases into a chair. He’s not exactly been _kind_ to his body the last half-week.

“Surprised you’re here,” Tabitha says, after a pause.

“You know I always have time for old friends.” Oswald reaches into the bag for his pad thai container. “I assume the rumor mill’s already updated you?”

“Yup,” she answers, tone noncommittal. After a few more moments, she finally quits studying her slide and yanks her gloves off, heading over to the sink to scrub away any contamination before eating.

“Do you have anything to say, because I’d _like_ to get through all the quips _now—_ ”

“ _Ugh_ ,” she turns around to face him, expression schooled. “That’s my reaction. _Ugh_. You’ve got awful taste.” She practically rips the bag in her scramble to grab her order (Oswald remembered it, of course), and she sits down to tear into her meal. “Damn, this smells good. I think the last time I ate was yesterday…”

“What does Fish have you working on?”

“Does it matter?” Tabitha asks, faced pinched as though she tastes something sour. Oswald only looks at her, stoically, waiting for her to elaborate. _Fine_ , Tabitha huffs to herself. “It’s some random homicide, not that interesting. At least at this rate, I’ll never be out of a job.”

The answer satisfies Oswald, and with a grin forming in the corner of his mouth, he turns his attention to his meal, scooping up mouthful after mouthful, as though he hasn’t eaten properly in days. Tabitha and Oswald soon lapse into a comfortable silence, with only the scrapes of cutlery and the sound of chewing to keep them company. It is their usual pattern, neither of them feels the need to engage in useless chit-chat—that drivel is beneath them.

“You know what…I _do_ have more to say. What the hell, Oswald?” she exclaims, waving her fork around as though she’s conducting an orchestra. “How did you fall into bed with the Riddler? That’s so _unlike_ you.” Taking a deep breath, Tabitha calms herself down before addressing Oswald again.

“I’ve known you for years, correct?” Oswald nods. “And in that time, have you ever been so…so… _reckless?_ ” Their last lunch date consisted of Oswald ranting and raving about the Riddler, only with less vitriol and malice compared to the previous times. “It’s one thing to try and help him, it’s another to…well, take a week sabbatical so you can get your jollies off with him.”

“My _jollies_?” Oswald doesn’t care that he talks with his mouth full. “I know I can be somewhat of a prude, _Tabby_ , but you don’t need to pretend to be one, too.”

Tabitha rolls her eyes and stabs at her meal.

“You didn’t _know_ me when I was reckless. Trust me, fucking the _Riddler_ ,” he makes quotation marks with his hands, the motion a bit distorted by the fact that he’s still holding his chopsticks, “is _nothing_ compared to what I used to get up to.” Tabitha’s eyes bulge a bit at Oswald’s uncharacteristic crassness, but she shakes it off quickly. He grins for one instant—he’d wanted to shake her up a bit. Besides, they’ve never been the type of friends to care much about keeping up appearances around each other. “I know they say, ‘Fools rush in,’ but I gave this a lot of forethought. He’s quite the gentleman, really. A wonderful cook.” Oswald smiles, looking into the distance of a corner of the room while he processes all his emotions about Ed for the first time in an external context. He hasn’t talked to a soul about their newfound love yet.

“Can you skip ahead to something that’s not so sugary it’s gonna make me be sick? Really don’t want to hear it.” She’s about to take another bite and then stops herself. “And no sex stuff! At all! I take pride in my ability to fall asleep easily at night.”

Oswald huffs at her. It is actually disturbing to watch how fast she can fall asleep—a necessary skill she’d picked up in the military, she told him. One time he caught her sleeping during a lull in their conversation one lunch just like this one. He didn’t bother solving the mystery if it was because she got bored, or was run exhausted from her job. With Tabitha, it was best to not be concerned about intents. She always meant well in the end, experience proved to him.

“Fine, I’ll tell you something else about him,” Oswald offers. “Remember the day I got concussed?”

Tabitha nods.

“There was glass in Ed’s hands.” Oswald rubs his leg; it stings, and nerves aren’t helping. Half the reason he kept this lunch date was because he needed to discuss this with someone, and truly, Tabitha is immensely compassionate when it comes to caring for those no one else does. He’s seen her go out of her way before, for those who are lost, or hurting. It’s hidden behind her misanthropic, antisocial veneer, but it’s a core part of who she is.

“Yeah, he punched something glass, from the looks of it. I still remember it—the oddest part was—”

“That he hit a mirror,” Oswald finishes. “The one in his bathroom, over the sink. Smashed it…” Well, Oswald isn’t sure how to explain it—he didn’t get to study it for long. Ed had covered it with a towel and always rushed Oswald out of the bathroom _every time_ he needed to use it, which Oswald assumed was Ed just being odd, as usual, but made sense once he got frustrated with not being able to style his hair (Ed’s place had _no_ mirrors otherwise). What he found alarmed him—clearly, Ed had punched the glass himself. Repeatedly. “With a _vengeance_ ,” he settles for that phrasing. “He’s a self-harmer. I’m sparing you the details, trust me, but…he’s littered in marks—some I can tell are from his _Riddler_ days. Knife stabs, the like. Others are…” he grows quieter. She doesn’t need to know about the cigarette burns, the other telltale signs littered across his skin.

And then there are the ones too systematic, too hidden in places Ed hoped others wouldn’t look, to not recognize them instantly. He’s seen traces of all of these back when Ed absconded with him after he saved Kristen Kringle’s life, but now he was intimately aware of them, had studied them up close. “You recognize things you have… _experience_ with,” he swallows. “Some of them I know are self-inflicted.”

Inhaling, Tabitha purses her lips and nods, looking away, clearly catching the path he’s creating.

Oswald looks down. “I’m not helping him at all, Tabby. I think I _caused_ some of them. So, you’re right. We’re a couple, but I’m not helping him with anything. I never _have_. We’re mostly caught up in sleeping together. The rest is…more than I know how to assist him with, _anyone_ with. The only light I have to cling to is that it’s _stopped_ as of late— _that_ I can verify.”

“Um…I _ah_ , okay…” Tabitha says, waiting for her thoughts to settle before searching for a place to begin. This conversation has shifted so far from _sugary_ , that it has dissolved into the black, bubbling mixture which coats the bottom of a pot after heating. The Riddler is a self-harmer…and by the sounds of it, an abuse survivor, too. Now that Tabitha thinks about it, as unfortunate as it is, it explains a lot.

Tabitha saw a lot of this behavior when she was serving: not self-harm in a physical sense, but deliberate and reckless endangerment of her squad members lives. At camp, her brothers and sisters would smuggle in bottles of alcohol, something vehemently prohibited, and waste the night away. In the field they acted as though their livelihoods weren’t at stake, ignoring the fact that they could die at any small misstep. Essentially, after operating under a stream of constant orders, they sought ways to take back a smidge of control, made their lives their own…any way they could. Self-harmers tell similar tales.

“You haven’t spoken with him about this, have you?” she asks, half knowing the answer, but seeking confirmation. Oswald sighs and shakes his head; he places his container of food on the counter, then runs his hands down his face.

“I’m not certain how and _if_ I should. Ed—he’s fragile, _sensitive_. I’m afraid if I broach the topic, it may cause more harm than good.”

“So you opt for the Band-Aid solution, instead.”

Oswald furrows his brows, mouth opening and closing forming some retort which isn’t voiced. Waving his hand through the air, he signals for her to continue.

“Oswald—” Tabitha hesitates, wanting to phrase this in a way which highlights the severity of _Edward’s_ mental state, but isn’t voiced as an accusatory attack. “You said he’s good now, that he seems stable?” Oswald nods on a delay, but it’s an agreement. Tabitha presses forward. “But look where he was before you entered his life.”

She doesn’t need to explain how much of a menace the Riddler was up until a few months ago, the entire city is aware. 

“You’re the Band-Aid—the nicotine patch for his smoking addiction. As much as I hate to seem like I care—you know how I despise people, not just your… _boyfriend_ —he needs help, he needs to speak to someone about this.” Tossing her fork into her container, Tabitha exhales sharply. “You can’t ignore a problem and hope it goes away. That’s how this guy ended up on my slab,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder, laughing under breath seconds later.

The ache rising in Oswald’s chest is hot and _hurts_ ; he swore off crying (besides, as nice as he knows she’d be about it—she’s seen him do it before and begrudgingly patted his back while he cried about his mom—Oswald does _not_ want to cry in front of her) Tabitha’s right. As funny as her joke is, it’s not hard for him to imagine a world where Ed _is_ the one to meet an untimely demise—there’s already enough points in the last two months Oswald can think of that it could’ve happened, and he rubs at his face again.

“Who the hell would I even get him to speak with?” Oswald grips his pant legs again, making more of a mess than he’s fixing them.

Tabitha shrugs, ponytail swinging. “Start with Hugo. Dunno if he’ll do it himself, but he’ll at least recommend people. Or tell Fish—”

Oswald frowns and shakes his head. “Not just yet. I’m not ready to have _any_ part of this talk with Fish.”

“ _Why_?” Tabitha asks, grimacing. “You two are so close, why not—oh. Yeah. Because you two are close.”

Oswald closes his eyes while he nods. “Thank you for understanding.” She is really very perceptive; Oswald’s lucky to have her as a friend. When was the last time he told her that? It’s worth saying out loud more often than he does.

“Ugh, _stop_ , please,” she rolls her eyes and dives back into her food. “Too much talking, I don’t hang out with you for the conversation, alright? Call Hugo, set up something, and let’s finish our damn meals in peace.”

Swallowing, Oswald nods, and picks his food back up. “Ed’s out with a friend right now, and we have plans this evening,” he feels himself flush a little. “I’ll bring it up with him when the moment’s right and the day is quiet.”

“It’ll be ok,” Tabitha offers, after a pause. “I mean, I guess so…right?”

“ _Thank you_ for the vote of confidence, Tabitha.”

“I’ve never shacked up with one of Gotham’s worst, just trying to be honest here!”

Oswald groans in frustration and Tabitha snorts.

“You’re Oswald fucking Cobblepot, you’ll figure it out. You already know I think you’re a pretty damn OK guy. Now, can we shut up and eat?”

Oswald smiles, amused, and takes her up on the suggestion.

~~~

The very second Ed walks into his apartment, he slaps on a pair of gloves, and begins to clean. Despite winning the chess match against Foxy—something which _should have_ given him a triumphant surge—his restlessness hasn’t abated. So he cleans. He sterilizes the floors, wipes down every surface, and scrubs clean dishes _clean_. Before he knows it, there’s a third cycle of washing spinning in the machine but it isn’t even necessary, it isn’t even _required_ , hardly _any_ of this is required, but Ed needs to keep his hands busy and his mind preoccupied, hyperfocused on something other than his concerns.

So he perseveres.

Ed dusts, remakes the bed, and polishes the cutlery. He completes every menial task until there is nothing left to do…then he showers. Jaw clenched, acclimating to the heat, Ed allows his mind to drift to Oswald—he’s been gone longer than he should be (Ed knows where he is, and with who, from learning his schedule months ago). His absence is noted. Beneath the scalding spray, Ed, with his eyes squeezed shut, scours at his skin, rubbing and rising, cutting down to the white-bone bliss of cleanliness, of purity, where he has yet to be infected by the voice in his head. It takes several minutes before his muscles begin to relax and his tension fades into nothingness. Exhaling a sigh of relief, Ed turns down the heat to a more _reasonable_ level, and takes a moment to bask in his newfound serenity, shampooing his hair at a relaxed pace.

The telltale whirring of the elevator is the stamp on Ed’s timecard—Oswald’s home. He smiles as he shuts off the water and rushes through dressing himself—opting for clothes of comfort, something soft and gentle on his skin, form-fitting, but not restricting—then shuffles his way over to the door. Oswald barely manages to take two steps into the apartment before Ed is there, wrapping his arms around him, burying his face in Oswald’s neck, holding him close. There is a slight delay to the return of the hug, but soon enough Oswald is reciprocating, chuckling lightly.

“I’ve missed you,” Ed murmurs, as he pecks several kisses across Oswald’s cheek, creating a path to his lips, before capturing them.

“And I you, my love,” Oswald breathes, before plunging back into the kiss Ed captured him in. It was nice to get out and about for a bit, but as the electric buzz and licking heat of being _with_ Ed again overtakes him, he forgets why he ever wanted to leave. Especially after thinking about some of the aspects of Ed and his well-being Oswald hasn’t considered before, he’s so grateful to have this man he adores _back_ in his arms.

He should ask how Ed’s visit with his mystery-friend was. He should ask Ed— _something_ , something he’s already lost the thread of as he slides his palms down Ed’s chest, soft sweater covering the skin underneath he knows is even softer.

There’s so much that needs _discussing_ between them, but lust controls Oswald more than concern, shamefully, but not enough to correct course. “I’m sure I should ask you your plans for dinner, and—” Oswald’s breath hitches as he tugs Ed’s hips close, “—would it be _rude_ of me if we… _jumped ahead_ with what I promised we’d do earlier?” He pulls back and smiles at Ed, sashaying his head and looking at Ed through his lashes as his grin spreads wider across his face.

“Not at all,” Ed replies and his abdomen twinges in agreement. This is exactly what he needs right now; the feeling of Oswald all over him. Bending forward, letting desire take the wheel, Ed flicks his bottom lip against the lobe of Oswald’s ear. “I do hope you are willing to follow through with what you said earlier, because I _distinctly_ remember something about a _delightful_ _evening_ on the cards.”

Ed toys with the buttons on Oswald’s waistcoat, tugging on the looped spaces between each one, guiding Oswald towards the bed. His mouth finds home on Oswald’s neck and Ed licks a hot, wet stripe up the column of his throat, before kissing and nipping his way down it, in an alternating pattern. There is a thin layer of sweat on Oswald’s skin, something so distinctly _him_ , that Ed groans at the taste, wanting _more_.

His lips meet the collar of Oswald’s shirt at the same time the back of his knees brush the mattress of his bed; there is an arm wound tightly around his waist and Ed grins as he draws back, wanting to address Oswald, but finds his thoughts quickly unattainable when Oswald tugs him back down. _No fair,_ he wants to say, but finds he has little will to do so.

Pushing Ed playfully down on to the bed, Oswald climbs on top of him, wearing a mischievous grin that compliments Ed’s blissfully aghast one. Oswald’s becoming adept at balancing his weight off his bad leg—there’s few things he’s finding compare to the rush, the _joy_ of being on top of Ed, so the adjustment is worth it. Pressing most of his weight into his hands, splayed on either side of Ed, he leans down to kiss him again, taking his time, slowly nipping and licking into Ed’s mouth, absorbed in the groan Ed lets loose, his fingers bunched in Oswald’s vest, his body rolling in a wave under Oswald.

“How could I ever go back on a promise to you?” Oswald husks, huffing against Ed’s lips as Ed flies through unbuttoning all of Oswald’s layers, mewling slightly when Oswald’s words seem to finally hit him. Ed tilts his head back, gasps with his eyes closed, his damp hair starting to curl already, and Oswald burns that _gorgeous_ image into his memory, never wanting to forget Ed like this. Something tugs at Oswald’s heartstrings, and he isn’t sure why—yes, it seems foolish that he and Ed have connected so strongly, so _quickly_ , but neither of them is rushing anything—there’s been no absurd plans, just enjoyment of their new relationship. They aren’t going to part anytime soon, that’s certain, and the rest they’ll figure out as time marches on.

“ _Oswald_ ,” Ed breathlessly moans, running his fingers over Oswald’s torso, eyes still closed, voice betraying how mentally far away he is. That pulls Oswald back into the moment. Clutching Ed around the waist, Oswald flips onto his back and tugs Ed with him; he catches himself at the last second, looking dazed, glasses hanging off his face as he kneels with one leg between Oswald’s, one alongside his hip. Reaching to slide Ed’s glasses off, Oswald goes for his sweater next, wanting to tug it off, and _god_ , this feels right _too_ , Ed flushed and gazing down at him, Ed surrounding him, always, always somehow everywhere at once when they’re together like this.

“Lost in thought, Ed?” Oswald teases, sitting up enough to peck Ed on the lips. “Come back to me,” he tells him, stroking his hands under Ed’s layers, unbuttoning his shirt deftly, itching to strip him bare.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ed says, staring into Oswald’s eyes, before rocking down into him. “Why would I, when you are right here?” There’s no place Ed’d rather be, no one he’d prefer to be with. If only he remained home and didn’t—Ed shakes his head. Those are thoughts he refuses to linger on. He’ll have plenty of time to evaluate things later…when Oswald isn’t lying beneath him, smiling tenderly.

“Can you get this off me now?” Ed asks, nodding down at his chest—his shirt is half unbuttoned, lower midriff exposed, but Oswald’s hands have stopped moving.

“You’re impatient,” Oswald comments, tackling the last of the buttons, and Ed doesn’t disagree.

“When it comes to you, _always_.” Shrugging off his shirt, Ed surges forward and buries his hands in Oswald’s hair. Their bodies connect in a long line, chests flushed together, and Ed kisses him slowly, quickly, _continuously_ , until he needs to break for air. He nips Oswald’s lips, nibbles on his jaw, and sucks on the skin on his neck as he shifts his lower body to straddle Oswald’s hips.

“You—” Ed chokes on nothing but air when his rear comes in contact with Oswald’s arousal. A full body shudder runs through him and Ed surrenders to it, gasping slightly, blinking rapidly. How quickly the mind can become preoccupied, catering to salacious thoughts. Ed wants to comment on how _beautifully_ debauched Oswald looks beneath him, with his layers peeled back to expose the pale skin of his chest, but his body has other plans.

Still, Ed tries again. Oswald often manages to make him feel special and appreciated, Ed would like to return the favor. “You—” he says, with little success. It is more a squeak than a word. Ed frowns into his pout, jutting his bottom lip, and Oswald laughs as he rubs his hands up and down Ed’s thighs.

“Oh, _shush_.” Ed pokes Oswald in the ribs, not expecting the way Oswald gasps and jolts to the side. Now it is Ed’s turn to laugh as he revels in his new discovery. An impish smirk finds home on his face and he wiggles his fingers through the air. “Are you _ticklish_ , Oswald?” he asks, intent clear. Oswald’s eyes widen, such a telling reaction, and Ed wastes no time in beginning his playful assault.

“You’re _the worst_ ,” Oswald wheezes between compulsory giggles. “ _Stop_ , Ed—ackkk! Stop!” He rolls on his belly, trying to get away from Ed’s furious tickling. He’s laughing so hard he can feel his face pulse with heat.

“You were being such a good boy before,” Oswald chides, as Ed tries to wiggle his fingers under and against Oswald’s belly again. “Now you’re just a _devil_. Go back to what you were doing before, I liked that,” he announces, pitching his hips back so he can grind his rear into Ed’s groin. Almost instantly, Ed _cracks_ , choking out a stuttered, stilted wail in response. Oswald grins—Ed’s so easy, and he loves him for it.

“I am, I _am_ , I can’t help it,” Ed whines, digging his fingers into Oswald’s sides as they rock against each other mindlessly. Oswald shudders when he realizes he must’ve spoken out loud, and Ed isn’t just responding to his own inner monologue, as he often does sometimes.

Ed lies across Oswald’s back; he reaches for Oswald’s splayed-out hand and locks his fingers between each of Oswald’s, pressing his palm flush against the back of Oswald’s own. With an arch of his neck and shoulders that Oswald can _feel_ , Ed kisses the back of Oswald’s neck, latching lips and teeth to the same curve of muscle and skin that he often likes to nuzzle his face in when he wants Oswald to hold him.

Oswald grabs their interlocked hands, shifts his weight accordingly, and kisses Ed’s fingers, before guiding both their hands down the length of his torso, Ed catching on and following the motion himself, dragging his hand faster and meeting the top of Oswald’s pants, where before he had only been touching the skin of Oswald’s hand.

“It’s been a long day, Ed—let’s not waste it,” Oswald mumbles breathlessly; he doesn’t even know if he makes sense, but he can’t _think_ with the heat Ed’s throwing off lavishing him, stifling him in his clothes.

Ed palms Oswald with the heel of his hand, shifting it along his length. A stuttered gasp reaches his ears, only he’s not entirely certain who it originated from. Oswald is groaning, rocking his hips back and forth, in reactive response, sending a _rush_ of pure energy up Ed’s spine so strong that he has to fight to keep his eyes open.

“You do this to me often, you know?” he whispers, pressing firmer, flushing at the moan of his name. “Make me lose my mind with a _single_ touch.” Rucking up Oswald’s clothes till his back is bare, Ed open mouth kisses across the expanse of it, licking, sucking, nipping, _tasting._ “When you run your hands down my chest—” his actions follow his words, mimicking, _plagiarizing_ the tangled stream of memories and fantasies swirling in his mind. “When you wrap your fingers around me. When you kiss me and speak words of love into my mouth—” Ed flips Oswald onto his back and gazes down into his wide-blown pupils, “—and when you stare at me like that…the _only_ thing I’m capable of thinking of is _you._ ”

Before Ed even has the chance to bend back down and kiss Oswald, Oswald slaps a hand to the back of Ed’s head and does it for him. They bump teeth, slide lips, and curl tongues. Oswald’s name is burned into Ed’s mouth, into his skin, burying itself deep into his body. Their hips shift together, completely uncoordinated but still gratifying, and Ed ears become the receiver to Oswald’s mindless curse.

Pressing his palm into Oswald’s chest, Ed rises and takes several deep breaths, before saying, “I’m going to taste you now, _okay?_ ”

“ _God yes,_ Ed—” Oswald’s vision blacks out for a second as he spreads his thighs and shuffles Ed in close against him. He swallows thickly, every nerve in his stomach rippling as Ed starts undoing his pants, his hot breath, on such a sensitive place, already making Oswald’s skin tingle, eyes sliding shut with a moan.

Shoving his heels into Ed’s back, the sharp edges of the soles of his shoes surely digging cruelly into Ed’s skin, just the way he knows his lover adores it, he musses Ed’s hair blindly, thrusting into nothing as he waits for Ed to work his _wonders_ on Oswald, playing him with a passion that only the most devoted musician bestows on their instrument.

Oswald throws his head back and shouts in pleasure at the first touches, _tastes_ , teases that Ed makes.

“You destroy me,” Oswald breathes, vision useless. “Obliterate me, I love it, I love _you_.” And he does. He does, he does, he _does…_

Ed wastes no time in doing just that—obliterating Oswald in the name of _gratification_. He mouths up his length, taking a few prolonged seconds to enjoy the sensory aspect of smooth heat brushing against his lips, before swallowing him down. Oswald moans, convulsively and loudly, every joint in his body tenses, trapping Ed in position, and it feels good, it feels _right_.

Being locked in place doesn’t hinder Ed in the slightest—in fact, it’s more _invigorating_ than stifling. Ed bobs his head, swirls his tongue and cherishes the image of Oswald coming undone as he works happily between his thighs. Gone is that sharp wit Oswald is so well known for—it’s been replaced with Ed’s name amidst a stream of _indecipherable_ pleas. Hollowing his cheeks, Ed pulls up slowly, before releasing him with a wet _pop._

Oswald whines in strangled desperation, and Ed chuckles. He latches onto the sensitive skin of Oswald’s thigh and sucks, intently ignoring the thrusting movements beside his head and the sharp tugs to his hair. Oswald _did say_ not to waste time, but he also called for Ed to _destroy_ him. Thankfully, both can be done simultaneously. 

Oswald pulls at Ed’s hair again, curses and begs _again_ , and Ed whimpers, body buzzing. He redirects his attention and allows Oswald to plunge into the depths of his throat, letting him control the pace, handing over the reins to do whatever it is he desires. There’s no need to restrain himself, they’ve discussed this before…plus, Ed has other plans. Moaning around the next several thrusts, Ed shuffles about and awkwardly works Oswald’s pants down his legs until they bunch around his ankles, then he takes his place again.

Oswald isn’t too happy when Ed removes his mouth for the second time.

“Ed, I swear, if you don’t—”

“Wait,” Ed interrupts, as he hikes Oswald’s legs up. “I wanna try something.”

That seems to catch Oswald’s attention. He nods and pants, peering down at Ed through lidded eyes. His chest rises and falls rhythmically and spasmodically, and that is the last image Ed sees before he dives down and experimentally flicks his tongue against Oswald’s opening.

Oswald _slams_ his palm down flat on the bed, and clutches the blankets and sheets so tightly that the bones in his hand ache. His other hand flies up to his mouth, not out of a desire to muffle the broken gasps and shrill moans he didn’t know he could _make_ , but only out of _shock_ at what Ed is doing to him, and how _phenomenal_ it feels.

Pitching his hips back further, granting Ed better access, he scrambles to grab hold of Ed’s hair again, pulling it as hard as he’s still fisting the sheets. Oswald breathes in stuttered measures; tears prick the corners of his eyes as he lets them shut in pleasure, head thrown back, panting hard. Ed dutifully laps, traces, _pushes_ against Oswald and his thighs tremble. The low rumble of Ed’s own moans reverberates through Ed’s chest and along the backs of Oswald’s legs, thrown across each of Ed’s shoulders, and Oswald _screams_ a curse when Ed does something he can’t even _describe_ with that _perfect_ mouth of his…

“Get up here and fuck me already!” Oswald howls, demanding, hitting Ed in the back with his heels. “Hurry up! I can’t take it anymore!” he punctuates this last by shoving down into Ed’s face, which seems to get Ed back in reality and makes him lift his head enough for Oswald to catch his eyes, brown irises almost erased by blown-wide black pupils, Ed blinking at him curiously, the rest of his face out of sight.

“ _Edward!_ ” Oswald yells in a completely undignified voice, frustrated and _cranky_ with need, forced to spur Ed on, like usual but with none of Oswald’s finesse at the brand of firmness Ed requires. He can’t, he _can’t_ , he’s too gone, needs more of Ed, _tells_ him so as he reaches for him, bekones Ed to him….

“Are you—you want me to…” Ed tries to ask, as he moves to hover over Oswald, feeling breathless at the mere thought of—

“ _Yes!_ ” Oswald hisses, rocking his hips back and forth.

“Okay… _okay._ ” Ed quickly strips them of their pants and shoes—they’d only get in the way—and scurries around to grab the small bottle of lubricant off his dresser. His stomach twinges with nerves as he coats his fingers and presses one, then two, then three inside of Oswald, giving him time to adjust to each one.

Oswald curses, and begs, and _pleads_. His nails dig into Ed’s bicep and his face contorts wickedly with pleasure. As desperate as Ed is to experience this new level of connection with Oswald, to _lose himself_ to the heat his fingers are diligently exploring, he doesn’t want to rush through preparation…that is, until Oswald tugs him forward, knocking him off balance, and kisses him.

“Now, Ed,” he pants, eyes glazed, pink lips parted, “before the chance passes you by.”

Bringing his knuckles to his mouth, Ed bites into them and nods. At this rate, Oswald could easily do him in with a few simple words. He’s wound so tight from the tugs to his hair, and the acts he has conducted, that when he withdraws his fingers and lathers himself up, Ed cannot resist thrusting into his wet fist, giving into a need his body is screaming for.

It’s with little trepidation that Ed forces himself to calm, gulping in mouthfuls of air, before lining himself up with Oswald. Taking one last second to seek silent reassurance from Oswald, Ed slowly presses forward. His breath hitches and his hips still, intensity instantly overwhelming him. He’s barely able to appreciate the sight and sound of Oswald’s moan over the pumping of blood whooshing past his ears. How does anyone survive this? Ed is too afraid to move, he doesn’t want this to end so suddenly, so he drops his head to Oswald’s shoulder and bites down on his lip until the taste of copper coats his tongue.

It feels _incredible_ to be so full, and it _hurts_ , and the whimpering noise Ed makes, how _lost_ he looks, that same face he makes every time he needs Oswald’s guidance, is the most _beautiful_ part of the whole experience.

He grabs Ed’s face between his hands, running his thumbs along Ed’s cheekbones softly. “It’s so good, Ed, so good, _you’re_ so good. Just move, okay?” He rocks against Ed, digs his heels into his backside to pull him even closer. Ed whimpers again and finally starts to move, his eyes screwed shut, his breaths coming in rapid pants.

“I _can’t_ , Os- _Oswald_ ,” Ed chokes on his name, forehead shone in sweat and his fingers clutching Oswald’s hips with the same worshipping service Ed bestows on Oswald’s hands when he holds them close to his chest while they cuddle. Inspired, Oswald pulls Ed’s head down so he can nuzzle their cheeks together, an exact imitation of when they’ve laid together and made love with soft touches that barely aim for sexual, that revel in the romantic. What started out raunchy and hedonistic has become heart-achingly tender and binds their souls together even tighter. Oswald kisses Ed’s temple; he shouldn’t be surprised that they always end up like this. It’s a blessing—it’s the best part of his _life_.

“Ed, you’re perfect, you’re incredible, you’re every dream of mine come true, I love you, I _love_ you,” Oswald meets Ed’s timid, uneven thrusts with steady, focused counter-movements. And it does, it _does_ feel like a dream, it’s _beyond_ perfect, and—

It almost takes thought to put together that new sensation was Ed coming _inside_ him. _So, that’s what the feels like when I do it,_ Oswald smiles, dazed with the realization. He strokes Ed’s hair while Ed comes down, riding out the shockwaves, quaking in Oswald’s arms before he collapses bonelessly, pressed flat against each other, with Ed still seated inside, without a thought. Oswald tries to slow his own breathing, but he’s still _aching_ , skin still electric with unquenched aching for release, but his priority is soothing Ed.

“‘M again,” Ed slurs, mumbling into Oswald’s hair. “Again, again, you didn’t—you—you have to—”

“I don’t—” Oswald isn’t _that_ selfish, he can himself, if he just—shifting back, cradling Ed’s hips between his thighs, he starts to—

Then he gasps. “Ed, are you—”

Ed only whines in response.

“Are you gonna get hard again and—”

“I think so,” Ed whispers, _shy_ , and Oswald immediately pulls his head to the side so he can kiss Ed deeply, _dirty_ , devotedly.

“Good, good Ed, I _want you_ to fuck me again,” he husks darkly. “ _Finish me._ ”

Ed groans and presses his lips against Oswald’s. It’s the most he can do at the moment, still too sensitive to test any pivots of his hips, but knowing within a few minutes, he’ll be ready to follow through with Oswald’s command.

“You’re…l-lucky I have such a short refractory period,” he pants, inhaling Oswald’s rapid exhales.

“I think _you’re_ the one who benefits from that more than I do,” Oswald teases, raking his nails up and down Ed’s back, producing shivers.

Ed has no quarrels with that statement, no quips to throw, or counter-arguments to make. Heat radiates off his face: he’s blushing yet again at Oswald and his undeniable, unguarded, _truthful_ statement. It’s a fact. Ed is hopeless to resist him, his body and mind call for Oswald’s touch. Smiling into his shoulder, Ed reaches between them and wraps his fingers around Oswald, turning his head slightly, to watch the way Oswald’s eyelashes flutter when he slides his hand up.

“Tell me you love me,” Ed breathes, hovering shakily, with the strength in one arm. He needs to hear it spoken, screamed, whispered, croaked, countless ways, countless times. There’s pressure on the back of his head, Oswald wants him to arch back down—Ed resists the temptation. He can’t give into that right now, he doesn’t want to miss witnessing the way Oswald’s lips and tongue shift to repeat the phrase, _longing_ to map it in his mind and _use it_ to erase any festering doubts.

“Please tell me,” he begs, eyes misting over, “never stop telling me.”

Pitching his hips back, Ed tests a simple thrust, _finally_ ready to do so. It’s enough to break through the deep haze of pleasure Oswald was trapped in.

“I love you, Ed. I _love_ you, I love you, I love _you_ ,” Oswald chants, rocking back into Ed’s hips, arching into Ed’s hand, before surging forward to press kisses across Ed’s chest.

Unable to coordinate himself between the two tasks he assigned himself, Ed stills to stroke Oswald a few more times—swiping his thumb, tightening his fingers, gazing enraptured at the display beneath him—then drops his hand and collapses against him.

“I love you too,” Ed cries, burying his face in Oswald’s shoulder.

Clinging tightly, Oswald rocks into Ed, who stays still and _lets him_ , too busy sobbing into Oswald’s shoulder to keep up, compliant as always to allow Oswald to guide them. He repeats himself, beyond willing to fulfill Ed’s request, and together they lose themselves to each other. Absorbed in trembling sensation, Ed quaking between his thighs, his legs wrapped around Ed’s waist, Oswald traces the scars along Ed’s back, pretending he can smooth them all into non-existence: the pain Ed’s endured, from so many sources, from even _himself_ , erased and replaced with only _this_ —the love between them, to start, and all the good stretched out in the future before them, together, _together_ for all of it.

_I wasn’t here before, but fate found us, and fate sealed us, and I am now—I am now._

Oswald groans and slips over the edge, a freefall from the tension he’s been riding all night, and Ed cries out, shoving in hard just once before it overtakes him as well, spilling into Oswald for the second time.

Time ceases as they lay together, exhausted and complete in more ways than one. Oswald strokes Ed’s hair, holds his palm over the scar on his neck, drags his fingers down Ed’s chest, mapping the marks present there, too. He whispers softly against Ed’s tear-streaked face, as Ed shoves his arms between Oswald and the bed so he can lock him in a desperate embrace. It would be easy to fall asleep like this, which is what Oswald wants to do—only make the necessary movements to shift into a feasible position and hold each other until sleep overtakes them.

Surging forward to capture Ed’s mouth in one last kiss, Ed halts him with a hand.

“Next time, _you_ do that,” Ed pouts and blinks. Ed rarely just says what he _means_ , but this one is a little obvious to Oswald. He chuckles.

“My pleasure,” he teases, voice dripping with promise, and Ed’s jaw drops right before Oswald kisses him, still grinning.


	13. Fastidiousness and Histrionics: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the events of the previous day still turning through his head, Ed awakes from a nightmare in the early hours of the morning. He has a chat with Kristen about the direction his life is taking, then another with Oswald after accidentally waking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all those. who have been waiting for an update of this fic, hello! We’re sorry for our brief disappearing act, but the past few months have been incredibly busy, what with Nano in November, quickly followed by the end of year holidays.
> 
> We hope you’re all well, and that the new year has been kind to you.
> 
> Happy reading!

Nightmares: they’re the reason Ed rarely sleeps. His slumber has been plagued and pilfered by them since a young age—an overactive imagination, he was told was to blame—but as he grew into adulthood, they shifted from shadowy monsters into a streamlined alteration of his current life. 

Reality in disguise.

Sweat-slickened, Ed jolts awake in the early hours of the morning, heart pounding. It’s as if a hypodermic of adrenaline has been emptied into his carotid, amplifying the usual rhythm, accelerating it to a point Ed fears it will never regulate again. _It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real,_ he chants, fisting the sheets, but the remnants of his nightmare are hooked into his mind, flashing before him, reel looped, making him whimper.

Beside him, Oswald stirs, mutters and mumbles, and a hot palm settles on Ed’s stomach. For a second, he entertains the thought of curling onto his side and burying his face in Oswald’s chest, taking solace in his presence, but settling back down to sleep will not quiet his rampaging mind. He’s not that lucky. Gently easing himself out from under Oswald’s arm, Ed slips on his robe, snatches up his phone, and quietly inches open the sliding door of his apartment.

Creeping out into the hall, Ed flops against the wall and calls on the one person who has always been there for him during these harrowing moments. Hitting the speed-dial button, he counts each ring. _One…two…three…come on Kristen, pick up…five…si—_

“ _Eddie_?” Her voice is croaky, hazy with sleep. Ed feels guilty for waking her for something so trivial, but he needs to hear her voice, has to know she hasn’t become one of the faceless, vitriolic people playing host in his nightmares.

“I’m sorry for calling so early—” the sun is barely up, night clings to half the sky, desperate to stay its course in a futile battle, “—but I…”

“Are you okay?” she asks, and the distinct but muffled sounds of shuffling worms through the receiver. “Did something happen?”

“I had a… _bad dream_.”

“The one with—”

“No,” Ed shudders and wraps his arm around his chest. That nightmare rarely _ever_ haunts him anymore; it was dealt with many years ago. He’s thankful to be away from the orphanage and all the people connect to it: the matron, the foster families, the other children…. “No,” he repeats softly, “not _that_ one.” The things troubling him now extend past the realm of sleep.

_Riddle me this_ , Ed says to himself, _how can I call it a nightmare, if it doesn’t leave my presence when I awake?_ Sliding down the wall, Ed folds into a tight ball. _I can’t,_ he answers, in turn. Fear is never so kind to ring at a reasonable time.

“Do you want to tell me what it was about?” Kristen asks, and Ed shakes his head.

He doesn’t know where or how to begin. How can he possibly say that he is afraid of everyone leaving him, of everyone hating him? How can he detail the fact that he thinks about this constantly? Will people grow to despise him again? Will Kristen move on to something better and forget about him? Will they no longer reflect each other? Are Oswald’s affections going to remain true, or were they—

“Would you like to speak about something else, then?” Kristen asks, accustomed to Ed’s usual brand of silence. “It might help get your mind off—”

Ed blurts the first thing that comes to mind, seeking abstinence from his tumbling thoughts. “I miss the stars, Kristen.”

“It’s dawn, Ed. There are no stars,” she deadpans, confusion palatable.

Ed exhales sharply; of course she sees it that way. They don’t mean the same thing to her. “There are always stars…” he lectures, “only for a few hours they aren’t visible to the naked eye. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

Almost like nightmares…not everything needs to be seen to be believed. Ed sighs, and picks at his cuticles.

“They’ve never felt so far away and…I want to collect them all, keep them close to my chest, never lose them. Is that—is that too much to ask?”

“Eddie, are you okay? I’m sorry for repeating myself, I know you don’t like that, but you sound… _troubled_.”

“Do I?” Ed questions. He can’t even differentiate what that feels like anymore. “Maybe I am…I don’t know. The universe is trying to tell me something, Kristen, something _important,_ but it’s jumbled inside patterns and coincidences. I can’t see it clearly—the pieces are there, puddled, waiting for me, but I am not _entirely certain_ it’s one I want to solve. What if—”

Ed grimaces. His thoughts taste bitter on his tongue, but he can’t stop speaking.

“Are you ever worried about things catching up with us? That the life we created, or were created _by,_ will be ripped from us?” Ed rolls his head to the left and stares at the apartment across from his own: his Riddler room. It’s locked, and will likely remain that way, for he no longer has need for it.

The Riddler was a tool, an extra mindset Ed engaged and indulged in when he had to be someone other than himself, someone _stronger_. But that man has little reason to exist anymore. He's been replaced with something much more wholesome, something Ed could never have constructed alone: _love._

_Is it—real—eternal? Shut up._

Kristen sighs. The sound of running water and the clicking of the gas-top stove follows.

“Of course I do,” she confesses, staring at the tea kettle while she waits for it to boil. “I worry about it in ways that I didn’t think…I didn’t know you thought about, as well. Legally, I don’t stress about it too much. Not with you in charge of covering our tracks.” She pauses, reaching for a cup and the tin of assorted teas, phone pressed into her shoulder, head shoved against it to hold it in place. “I worry about what I’ve become. How everything comes back around. I used to think, for a long time, that string of abusive _bastards_ , the people who let them get away with it, made me convince myself it was my fault…I was so sure the world was the unfair one in all of this, and that the scales would never balance.”

Ed is silent; Kristen throws a teaspoon of tea in with the bag in the empty cup and leans against the counter, waiting still.

“Then we came into each others lives. And we made the balance.” Kristen doesn’t know, even after all these years, the specifics of what drove Ed to become a murderer, to want to trick others, show them their ineptitude in choosing to ignore what was in plain sight would be their undoing; it was his business, it was always obvious he wasn’t that different from her, in the end.

“I was raised to do better, _be_ better than what I’ve become. That the almighty God, who never seemed to concern himself with me too much, would reward those who are good, and seeing as I lost my chance to be one of those kinds of people a long time ago, I figure I’ll meet what I may in that regard, down the road. But that’s not what I worry about. I worry about…losing everything. _Everyone_. About the nightmares I have, too. About all of this still hurting me in the end.”

The kettle is hissing steam and Kristen lurches forward to pour some water in her mug. “Sorry, Eddie, I didn’t mean to ramble so much. It’s not me I’m concerned about right now. Your question just…” _Got under my skin_. She chuckles sadly. “I’ve just been thinking about some stuff like that lately by myself, so I…didn’t know you did, too.”

Biting her lip, she carefully hops up on one of the stools she keeps by the small window in her kitchen, to look out at the light slowly creeping up the sky. “Is the universe trying to tell you it’s a _good thing_ we stopped being Riddler and Red, or is it telling you that’s where we _belong_ and it’s time to go back?” Immediately she bites her lips again, forcing herself to stay silent. The question she’s wanted to ask him for so long has been spoken—now it’s time to hear Ed’s truth. Is there any chance they can go back to how they were before, or is it too late, already out of reach?

“That’s—that’s not the right question,” Ed informs her, curling his toes until he hears the telltale crack. Cradling his phone between his ear and shoulder, he moves onto the joints in his fingers, targeting them one by one, releasing the tension pent up in his body. “The one you _should be_ _asking_ is: can you rip off your skin, and live as you once did?”

In stripping away his Riddler identity, Ed is reduced to bare basics; the fundamental structure of a house without walls. He can peer out in each direction, but there is nothing to stop people from gazing in.

Kristen remains quiet. Ed can feel the inner mechanisms of her brain turning, searching for a solution, but he fears his postulations may have been lost in translation. Still, he can’t fault her for not having the answer, not when he is in the same predicament. The universe alludes to a great many things, but not all of it is certain. It needs to be deciphered, before being implemented: the codec of his life.

“If you don’t listen, do you still hear?” Ed riddles, thinking over the answer himself. It’s like there is gauze over his eyes and cotton in his ears. Everything is muffled. Questions and answers all sound the same. There’s no differentiating them. Facts may be shouted at him, but he’s only grasping tidbits, juggling half-truths, deciding what to do with the limited information he has.

“I’m…” Ed pauses, mashing his lips together. His eyes prickle as he peers at his apartment door, knowing everything which waits for him inside. He didn’t realize it until now, but he is sitting in the center of the corridor, between the two distinct halves of his life: the Riddler, and Ed Nygma. Ed’s never coped well with change that he isn’t in control of. His chat with Fox the previous day is making him question things, as is his differing relationships to both Kristen and Oswald. There are too many directions, and a compass can only point to one, but it’s spinning around and around, landing on none.

“I’m _afraid_ I’ve made the wrong decision,” he continues, picking up from where he left off. “I’m also afraid it might be the _right_ one. Changing my life, becoming who I am, was never a question. It was the solution to all my problems. For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable, like I belonged…and now…now it’s something new.”

“So what do I do?” he queries, tearing at the skin of his cuticles. “Do I remain, or do I rebuild? Oswald has given me a great many things, but purpose is not one of them. I had that with you: a purpose, plans, principles. With all that we have achieved together, I need not do anything for the rest of my life, but that is not living, is it?”

“Ed…” Kristen tears up a bit and hopes it doesn’t creep into her voice. She holds the tea cup below her face and lets the heat sink into her pores, her sinuses, her chest, opening up her respirations to the cold morning air, and her heart to the confusing news her only close friend is delivering her.

“You were happy as the Riddler. You just said so yourself. I think…that what you and Oswald have sounds like it’s beautiful, but yes, it’s undefined, it’s never going to be predictable. It’s probably even without purpose.” She hears him make a small, pitiful noise at this. “ _Life_ is without purpose, for most people. They just get stepped on, used and abused, beaten down by unfair cruelness and awful circumstances. It’s the people in our lives that give it meaning.” She tries a sip of her tea, but it’s still scalding. “It’s holding on to them that is really all we’ve got.”

Closing her eyes, Kristen rests her head against the wall and tries to simply feel, to let herself go through the myriad of emotions she needs to right now. “You had a lot with me, and I have a lot with you. Come back, please, Ed? You already built what you needed here—you taught me how to do it, too. It’s important to know when you’re _happy_. When to _stop_. In theory, changing who you were always meant to be for _love_ is _beautiful_ , but it’s already only been a few days and you’re calling me to let me know you’re _miserable_. I’ll come home. We can start over like nothing changed. Forget all of this happened. It’s clearly in your best interests.”

Without saying a word—although wishing he could be a little more obdurate—Ed makes his way over to his Riddler room, with weighted steps. Kristen’s pleads hit him harder than he expected, he needs to see what it is he may be giving up, or rejoining. Tangible evidence. Sliding back the small hidden panel, he enters in the eight-digit pin code (the only apartment in the entire building with this feature), and shunts open the door, but he can’t bring himself to cross the threshold.

“If I do this, I’ll lose Oswald—that’s a _certainty_ ,” Ed says to himself, speaking his thoughts aloud, shifting them out of his head. “Oswald doesn’t like the Riddler, he barely even knew he existed. He’s only ever known me as myself—” _titleless and unguarded_ “—on the other hand, if I don’t, will I lose Kristen? The probabilities aren’t equal. There’s not enough data.”

Gnawing on his lip, Ed strips back layer after layer of skin, and ruminates over his conundrum to the sound of Kristen’s soft sniffles.

_“_ Why does everyone keep telling me to come back?” he ponders, grimacing at the small layer of dust lining his gadgets and schematics. Both Kristen and Oswald have repeated the same phrase verbatim, within hours of each other, but Ed is not the one who is disappearing; Kristen left for five weeks, Oswald for eight days. In recent months, Ed’s only made _one_ afternoon journey, unaccompanied, and now everyone wants him to return. Return from where? Return to…them?

“Why are there always two opposing choices?” The Riddler or Ed Nygma? Kristen or Oswald? Certainty or unpredictability? Back or forth? Left or right? Where does he fit into the equation?

“Does love need a reason to exist?” Ed blurts, easing the door closed. He’ll deal with it at a later date. There’s much to deliberate. “You say love is beautiful, Fox proclaims that it is blind. Can’t it just… _be_ , without question?”

“Love _is_ the only reason anything exists, Ed. You know I need to tell myself that or I’ll…I’ll go insane without believing it.” Kristen sets her mug down, gripping the sides so tightly her bones ache, her skin burns. Hearing Eddie’s innermost thoughts— _he clearly forgot he was talking out loud, he only does that when he’s really stressed out_ —has her heart breaking. Oswald’s making him this miserable already? Just when she was thinking the guy wasn’t so bad _…it’s just like Fox all over again…._

_I could make him stop this. I’m sure I could. I know him better than anyone else, I’m the only person he truly has in his life. The right words, the right guilt trip—I could. I could…I should…_

“It can be whatever you want it to be, Eddie. Just…try to be smart about it, alright? Because whatever it is, it will _always_ be something we can’t change the truth of. There’s a lot of tricks you and I can pull off…but that’s not one of them.”

Blinking back tears, Kristen goes to shut her phone and end the call, reaching her emotional threshold, when suddenly she pulls it back to her ear and loudly asks, “Ed, are you talking to Fox again?”

“No,” Ed says, defensively, then sighs. Kristen might not be Fox’s biggest fan—or even a kind acquaintance—but lying about meeting him serves no purpose, not when she’s bound to find out sooner or later. “Yes. _Yes_ , I spoke with him recently—yesterday, one forty-five. Please don’t be mad. I—I know you told me to take a break from him, to lessen contact…and I did, _I did_ for _eight months_ , but he wanted to apologize for Jim and Bullock’s behaviour. It would have been rude of me to not hear him out.”

There’s a part of Ed that wishes he had the forethought to consult Kristen the previous day, to inform her about his plans to meet Fox. She would have been the loud voice of reason which could have— _saved me from myself_ —persuaded him to remain home. _You can’t regret future events before they occur. It’s redundant logic._ Dropping to the floor, Ed wraps an arm around his legs.

“He had some comments about Oswald, too, but they weren’t very easy to hear. I didn’t feel well when I left.”

Kristen inhales harshly, sighs heavily. “Fox always makes you uneasy, Eddie. I warned you off from him for a reason, and this is _why_ —he always manages to… _confuse_ you somehow.”

The last thing she wants to see is Ed isolated—he has such a hard time having close relationships in his life (not that she isn’t much the same—he, the introvert, hardly connects with anyone, and she, the extrovert, forges relationships easily, but the connections are shallow, both of them reluctant to open up to others due to their own troubles), but where she was concerned about Oswald being in Ed’s life, she’s utterly _uneasy_ with Ed having any contact with Fox. _He’s blind to how badly affected he is by everything Fox says or does._

“What did he say about Oswald?” she asks, rubbing her temples, wishing this conversation wasn’t happening and she could crawl back into bed. It’s obvious this isn’t going to go anywhere good, and both hearing Ed distressed, and Ed distressing _her_ isn’t helping matters.

Ed doesn’t answer her. “Ed— _what did Fox say?_ ”

“I—I… _a lot,_ ” Ed chokes out, dropping his face into the space between his chest and knees. It’s far too easy to recall Fox’s words, they’ve been trapped in his head for hours. Oswald had quietened them for a while, but out in the hall, away from the comfort of his embrace, they wiggle and worm their way back into the forefront of his mind.

“Fox knows him—or _of_ him. Both, either, does it really matter?” Ed squeezes his eyes shut, and his face crumples like a balled up piece of paper. “He said Oswald is a sadist—I don’t mind that. Sadism isn’t always a bad thing—and that he specializes i-in coaxing his way into people’s lives. Fox, without a doubt, expects Oswald to use me, then discard me… _violently_. He was very poignantabout that, about Oswald’s brutality.”

_Don’t I know him best?_ Ed wonders, nose tingling. Why does he need to convince everyone that Oswald is a gentleman, the perfect suitor, and his soulmate? Yes, they’ve had their hurdles, mountains to cross, crosses to bear, but don’t all relationships go through something similar? Not everything can be as delicate or as pure as the white petals on a flower.

“He said he’s worried about me, seems to think that I’m not happy—you’ve both expressed that—but I _am_ happy. Oswald makes me happy. His smiles taste like sunshine. I feel alive around him.”

“And Fox is a saint, to be passing judgement on _Wally the Penguin_? Really? Where does he think he can get off, saying all of this? I already know all about your boyfriend’s past, Ed—I wasn’t about to sit back and watch you throw the life you built for yourself away on some guy you got—” Kristen rubs her temples with one hand splayed across her forehead and breathes. _There’s no need to berate Eddie over his embarrassing crushes…calm down, Red, and approach this nicely. He’s hurting enough as it is._

“I know all about Oswald, Eddie. It wasn’t just you who was looking into him. After the things I’ve been through, trusting people, trusting men at face value—I’m not sorry for snooping! You never are!”

Eddie pathetically sniffles something that sounds like _that’s not true I am sorry_ and Kristen speaks over him.

“There’s nothing your _formerly_ villainous man does that even fazes me. Does anything in Oswald’s past bother you?” Even the fact that he worked for Lee (and planned to betray _her_ , too, doesn’t bother Kristen, for the simple fact he never would have won against her friend).

Eddie sniffles again and Kristen says, “I thought so. It’s not who he was that concerns me. And for Mr. ‘Look at Me, I’m a Stone Cold _Fox’_ to be telling you this nonsense—he never had your best interests at heart! I can’t stand that you’re friends with him!”

The pitiful noise of protest Ed makes doesn’t even register, doesn’t slow down Kristen’s tirade. She’s too emotional from the ups-and-downs of this talk to hold back anymore. _Why is everything with Ed always this exhausting? He always drags me up and down his vast emotional spectrum, as if my own isn’t extreme enough_ …. She thinks back to that disastrous night with Fish at the bar and rubs her forehead harder.

“The _last thing_ people like you and me _and Fox_ ,” she pointedly adds, “should care about is when Oswald was off plotting to take people out for being in his _way_. Hell, I’d prefer you date _that_ version of him, because it would remove this whole creepy element of how you want him to _change you_ , because he’s such a shining example of a _great man_. Outside of an act of heroism I can never repay, he’s just like every other washed-up _failure_ in this city—” Fish’s face flashes through her mind, and her heart pangs with the distorted level her anger has taken her opinions to in the moment, “—and he’s tricking you into feeling the same way about yourself! He makes you feel _alive?_ The Riddler is what makes you feel alive! How can you give all of that up, for this unrealistic, unsustainable nonsense you two are caught up in!”

“ _Kristen_ ,” Ed’s voice hisses her name like a warning; he’s been chanting it while she railed on, and she ignored him.

“No! I don’t want to hear it, Edward! The one time I need Fox to help me deal with you and he’s useless! I’m not going to stand for this—I am _going to save you_ , Ed, I haven’t worked this hard to fix this for nothing!” And with that, she slams her phone shut.

Ed seethes at the sound of the dial tone—the monotonous note drones incessantly in his ear, like a bothersome mosquito. _She…she hung up on me?_ He rips the phone away and glares at the screen, eyes flicking over Kristen’s name, wishing he never made the call in the first place. She was no help at all. She didn’t even _try_ to listen.

Not too long ago, Ed would have destroyed the person who dared speak to him in such a manner. Making a mockery of those _foolish_ enough to challenge him was a mere _hobby_ compared to the full extent of his capabilities—however, those that _did_ hardly ever survived long enough to speak of his grandeur. They were moved around like chess pieces in a game they didn’t know they were playing, and one by one they met their end.

Snapping his phone shut, Ed’s knuckles whiten and the plastic creaks. “Stupid, ungrateful…think she knows best. Who are you to decide how I should live my life?” he snarls, lips curled back to expose his teeth. “I’ve done _everything_ for you. I _saved_ you, set you _free_ , gave you a life you could never have _conceived_ on your own, and you want to berate me for the direction I wish to take with mine? What gives you the right? When did you become my keeper, my jailer? You don’t control me!”

With a growl of frustration, Ed tosses his phone down the corridor, hands now free to tug on the strands of his hair, as if he could extract every negative, confusing thought. But a puppet-master he is not. Ed rarely ever has the control or dexterity required to wade through his internal issue; instead he finds himself locked in a maze with its exits sealed shut. No hope for escape.

Scrambling to his feet, unable to stay still, Ed storms _away_ from his Riddler room, putting distance between the place Kristen most wants him to enter again— _she doesn’t have the authority to make those calls_ —and enters his apartment. The burner plates of his gas top stove sings when it meets the bottom of the kettle, vibrations fizzling out as the flame ignites.

“You think you can save me, Kristen Kringle, you, who can’t even support me!” Ed jeers, tapping his foot, waiting for the water to boil. “What have you worked to achieve? Nothing. Six weeks—” he pauses to laugh. It’s deep, dark, and malicious. “— _six_ _weeks_ and you’re still stuck on square one, blind to the truth before you. Who’s the failure now?”

_Oswald is a failure. Oswald is using you. Oswald is dangerous. Oswald is tricking you._

“No he isn’t!” Ed shouts at the abstracted voices in his head, battering his temples with the heels of his hands, lashing out at every comment Fox or Kristen has made about Oswald. His friends, his _only_ friends, don’t support him, they don’t believe him. Why won’t they believe him?

Oswald awakes with a start, flailing his limbs as he sits up. “Wha— _what?_ ” he demands, startled to have heard yelling. The bed is cold— _Ed’s not here_ —he feels around with his hand for his boyfriend until he hears a noise from the kitchen area and looks, blinking his bleary, unfocused eyes at the site of Ed holding his own wrist, looking at Oswald sheepishly, lips pulled into his own mouth.

“The hell is going on? Who are you yelling at? Better not be me, there’s no one else here,” Oswald grouses, moving to get out from under the covers but flopping back down into them instead. “It’s too early, Ed,” he whines, exhausted still and half-asleep. “You know I’m not a morning person. Come back to bed and stop banging about.”

Ed stares at Oswald, then flicks his gaze to the kettle, then back to Oswald, too alarmed to comply with the order. Waking Oswald was not the intended outcome of his rage—he should have found a way to _control_ himself, to limit the noise, to not be a disturbance, to be more considerate—but he cannot deny the _elation_ he feels at seeing him awake…even if it is only to watch Oswald throw an arm behind his head, and nestle under the covers.

Squinting into his smile, Ed’s his heart flutters at the sight. Oswald’s predictability is a comfort, reassuringly beautiful, as is his presence. Why Kristen and Fox fail to take that into account when they make their assumptions, Ed will never know. They don’t understand how blessed he is to finally have something _meaningful_ to treasure.

The winding whistle trilling in Ed’s ear captures his attention, forcing him to address more pressing matters before he adds to Oswald’s morning grumpiness. Without thought, or a dishcloth to protect his hand, Ed nabs the metal handle of the kettle and removes it from the heat, flicking the burner off seconds later, then makes his way over to his bed. It isn’t until he sheds his robe that he takes notice of the tingling sensation in his palm.

Halting, head cocked to the side, Ed peers quizzically at the _blossoming_ red mark coloring his skin and traces the outer perimeter, prodding it gently. It’s not the first burn on his body, and it _undoubtedly_ won’t be the last either, just another added to his growing collection…scarcely more than a temporary, mild annoyance.

Dropping his hand, Ed lifts the blankets, and with due care, melts on top of Oswald, needing to be close to him again. He buries his face in the crook of Oswald’s neck and peppers soft kisses across his heated skin.

“‘M sorry for waking you,” he whispers through a sigh, as Oswald winds an arm around his waist, “you can go back to sleep now…or perhaps you’d rather stay awake and enjoy the morning with me?”

“We can have breakfast later,” Oswald mumbles, rubbing his nose in Ed’s hair. “Make me coffee later, too…” He’ll drink it in bed, with Ed grinning, watching; it’s a routine for them, in light of what an oddly significant role it played in the formation of their relationship. Ed always clutches his hands together, smile spread across his face as he watches for Oswald’s reaction. The coffee is always delicious; Ed is always beautiful to behold. Oswald hates mornings, but with Ed, he finally understands why people might find them lovely.

“I don’t want breakfast,” Ed mutters, sounding sullen. He works his slender hips between Oswald’s thighs and sighs dramatically. With a finger hooked into each side of Oswald’s pajama top lapels, Ed pulls them apart to mouth across more of Oswald’s skin, wriggling himself suggestively against Oswald, which causes him to gasp slightly and tighten his grip on Ed’s waist.

It’s a little clear now what Ed meant; Oswald’s blood pumps harder through his veins as his mind catches up with what his body already knows.

There’s no reason _not_ to—it’s surprising for Ed to—no, scratch that, it’s not surprising at all that Ed is this forward yet somehow so _needy_. He’s been like this before…maybe not so focused, usually waiting for Oswald to give as much as he gets, but Ed seems single-minded at the moment, as he sneaks his fingers along Oswald’s waistband, working up under his shirt, and Oswald’s not going to complain at this—

“Oww!” Oswald jolts away from…whatever the awful sensation was. It felt hot, not fun-hot, _painfully_ hot. “The hell?” he looks down at Ed, who is resting his chin on Oswald’s chest. He doen’t seem affected; did he not feel that sharp pain, too? “Are you ok?” he asks Ed, and Ed blinks slowly, then nods, slipping his hands back under Oswald’s clothes—

“What is wrong with your hand, that _hurts!_ ” Oswald sits up, fully awake now, and Ed sits up a bit himself to adjust for Oswald’s sudden movement. He grabs Ed’s hand to inspect it—the back of his hand is fine, but his palm is—

“This…this is a _burn_ ; how did you burn yourself?”

Ed blinks a few more times. “I guess on the kettle.”

“D-doesn’t it _hurt?_ God, Ed, how are you not in agony right now?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Ed defends, pursing his lips.

“It _should_ , it looks terrible. Move, I need to get you ice for this—”

“But what about…” Ed pulls his lips into his mouth and looks at the bed sheepishly.

“We’re not going to continue anything now, you’re seriously injured! You need first aid.”

“No, don’t!” Ed tries to scramble out from under the quilt, putting his hands out to stop Oswald from moving.

Oswald stares at him. “You don’t want me to go into the bathroom at look at the mirror, do you?”

Ed gapes and inch by inch lowers his hands, his eyes downcast and _sad_.

“Ed, we need to…” _We need to talk about this,_ Oswald wants to say, but tears prick in his eyes faster than he can speak. Dammit, he needs to be unbiased and strong for this, but it hurts to think of what he’s finding out about Ed’s secrets. Oswald reaches for his hand, pressing his fingertips along the scars on Ed’s knuckles. “We need to talk. I-I’m _concerned_ about your behavior today. The yelling, this…attempt to distract me. Did you just hurt yourself on purpose, and try to hide it from me?”

“No, no, no, I didn’t—it was an accident,” Ed tries to explain, wanting to both hide his hand from sight, and bury himself under the covers to avoid having this conversation. It’s not pleasant, it’s more unnerving than the mark on his hand, something which is giving him no qualms. Folding an arm over his chest, Ed inhales a staggering breath, and scratches at his collarbone. “You said to come to bed…I wasn’t thinking.”

“Ed, I’m not judging you when I say this, but you overthink _everything_.” Ed’s face crumples as he squeezes his eyes shut, hoping to tune Oswald out, but the gentle caress to his knuckles has him locked in the moment, attentive to every word and touch. “Why is it that your health and safety aren’t important to you?”

Drawing his elbows close to his body and his shoulders to his jaw, Ed shifts off Oswald’s lap. The metal joints in his bed squeak, protesting as if they are warning him off from saying another word, but when has Ed ever succeeded in keeping his mouth shut? “It doesn’t hurt,” he repeats, feeling the mattress ripple when Oswald shuffles about. “So there’s no need for you to worry yourself over me. These… _afflictions_ …I don’t feel them like other people do.”

It was a striking realization the day Ed discovered that. How can he be oversensitive to every small touch, but things that injure him, that make him bruise or bleed, are rarely felt? It’s contradictory in the most inconsistent of ways.

“I—” Oswald begins, but a sharp sigh cuts him off. “I’ll go get you some ice.”

Ed wants to protest again, but it would be for naught. Eyes remaining downcast, he nods, catching sight of the shadows of movement in his peripheral vision. There’s clatter following every flash: the rip of the freezer seal, the crunch of the ice, the sliding of the drawer, before the room falls silent, and Oswald returns.

Sitting down next to Ed, Oswald gingerly turns Ed’s palm and eases the twist-tied-top plastic bag of ice against Ed’s skin. Little indicators expose that Ed _can_ feel it—an involuntary flinch of his muscles, a quick squint of his eyes, a soft hiss, but Ed seems to be right—Oswald can’t register any actual discomfort in his face.

“You need to be more mindful, then, of what can harm you,” Oswald says softly, biting his lip as he gives the smallest of strokes to the back of Ed’s hand as he cradles it in his.

Ed drops his chin to his chest and doesn’t speak, watching what Oswald does instead.

“I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest. Have you hurt yourself before and tried to hide it from me? Is that why Tabitha said you had glass in your hand, why the bathroom mirror is smashed up?”

Oswald catches Ed’s arm before he can pull away, both of them babbling over each other.

“Ed, stay! I’m not going to judge you or discipline you! I only want to understand.” Twisting Ed’s hand back around without force, Oswald resumes icing it. “I feel like you’re hiding something from me, _especially_ right now, because you think I won’t be sensitive or understanding. Admittedly, I’m not always as kind as I can be, but surely by now you know I never want to hurt you. Ed, please…”

“No, I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t—” Ed shakes his head, chin scraping across his collarbone, and whines. Half his brain gives him a list of reasons why Oswald will accept him, despite…well, despite his ongoing mental instability, but the other half bombards him with every dreadful outcome he can perceive. He doesn’t want to gamble with such odds, not when he has so much to lose.

“Can you—can you tell me about the scar on your forearm first?” Ed pleads in an unsteady voice. Using his free hand, he tugs on the front of his hair, dragging the strands down across the bridge of his nose. “I’ll speak about mine, I will, but please, Oswald, _please_ don’t make me be alone in this.”

There are too many stories, _memories_ , Ed refuses to get lost in, others he forbids to touch. To acknowledge them is to give them sustenance; like a bacteria, they’ll grow and fester, multiplying over and over and over again, until they ultimately infect him, and shut down his entire system. He doesn’t want to be dragged back into that hell, not after working so hard to overcome it.

“Please, Oswald.”

Oswald looks at his forearm. “Well, you picked a bad one to start. I dropped something under one of the filing cabinets at work, and after I haphazardly raised it up with some books, I reached under, and—I’m lucky I didn’t break my arm, but I did get it caught on a sharp, bent piece of metal that I didn’t know was near the edge, and…” he makes a _slice_ noise, and Ed’s eyebrows shoot up. “It’s relatively new, that’s why it looks bad. Happened around last year.”

Shifting around, Oswald tries to lift the back of his shirt. “There’s one above the center of my back. Can you find it?”

Ed traces up Oswald’s skin with hesitant fingers, edging the tip of his finger along the scar. He clearly knows it.

“ _That_ was when I was literally stabbed in the back. I was young, stupid, and thought I could take on a street punk who was harassing me myself. Didn’t go so well.” Turning a bit, Oswald gestures at his bicep. “There’s one here too. Fish hit me with a pipe. Oh, yes, _Fish!_ ” he confirms, when Ed’s mouth hangs open. “It was fair, completely fair—she wrestled the weapon away from me and only attacked me in self-defense. I was trying to escape the GCPD, after my arrest, and I wasn’t being very polite about it.” He smiles for comedic effect, but Ed doesn’t react.

Rolling the sleeve of his top back, he pats the inside of his arm, near the elbow. “I don’t know if you can still see these. I can still feel them, from when I was 13. Ill-conceived ways of…dealing with my problems. To look like this, act like I do, be…who I am…it wasn’t easy, growing up, going to school.” Oswald trails off for a second, head hanging low. “It’s hard to speak of this. I don’t want to remember it. That I was once…a mobster, once… _suicidal_ , once…just an idiot at work.” He tugs his sleeve back down, and lifts his face to meet Ed’s gaze, his own eyes full of tears.

Sniffing, he holds his jaw high and smiles as best he can. “We do the best we can, with what we have…the story our scars tell is inescapable.” He reaches for Ed’s hand, the undamaged one, and holds it tight, smiling again. “At least I have someone in my life now who _truly_ understands and—and accepts me for who I am.”

Discarding the bag of ice somewhere to his right, Ed dives forward and wraps his arms around Oswald’s shoulders, being mindful of his damaged hand, and shuffles into the space between his legs. “I love you,” he croaks, clutching him tighter, wracking his brain on how to start explaining the stories behind his own scars.

Despite having the tendency to be apodictically honest when speaking things known to be facts…it’s a different story when it comes to personal issues. That understanding Oswald shares so freely comes with a weight Ed can’t quite make sense of. How does he bear it or relieve himself of it? Will his own tale change Oswald’s opinion of him? To be looked at with pity and concern, to be perceived as fractured as the mirror in the bathroom, is something Ed cannot stomach.

His hands find the back of Oswald’s head, fingers mapping the place which once bled crimson only a few short weeks ago. “You don’t remember much of that day, do you?”

“What day?” Oswald asks, brushing his palms down Ed’s sides. “ _Oh_ , no, admittedly, things got a little _hazy_ after the scuffle in the alley.”

“I feared as much.” Drawing his lips into his mouth, Ed pivots, and leans back into Oswald’s embrace, resting his head on his shoulder, adopting the position they had on the balcony just days prior. Opening his mouth, he goes to speak, however a strangled squeak escapes the back of his throat as he deliberates over which thread to begin with. There are many ways to tell his story…only it’s not some _fable_ , it’s memories _brailled_ on skin, instead of on paper.

_Pretend it’s a story. Pretend._

“When I—I did this,” Ed says, lifting his hand beside his head to show off his scarred knuckles, “it was after you abruptly ended our previous relationship. I had a… _panic attack,_ of sorts, and this is the result of me trying to silence that—” he swallows down the lump rising in his throat, and digs his nails into the pad of his thumb, “—voice which says I’m pathetic. The same voice who _mocks_ me for wanting a different life, that says that I should stop denying who I am.”

Behind him, Oswald tenses, the arms around his midsection grow rigid, joints seized.

“Please don’t,” Ed whispers, stroking Oswald’s arm. _Don’t shatter my illusion. Pretend with me. Pretend._ “Don’t feel guilty for this, it wasn’t your fault. I should have been polite, _respectful_ , it’s what you kept repeating to me…it’s what many people have repeated to me.” The welling of tears in his eyes catches him off guard, and Ed bows his head to keep them from view. He waits a few silent moments to see if Oswald has any comments, but nary a sound reaches his ears, only the quiet hum of his refrigerator and the comforting draw of breath.

“You’re thinking too hard, Oswald. I can feel it,” he whispers, voice monotonous. “It’s like an invisible weight, tangible only in ways that it’s not.” A burst of air brushes the back of Ed’s neck: a voiceless huff. “I don’t blame you for anything, if that’s what you are concerning yourself over. You were angry, rightfully so, and you dealt with the situation, _with me,_ accordingly.”

Kicking the blankets off his legs, Ed brings them close to his body, and strives to maintain detachment from his intrapersonal issues. “You’re not like the other people I’ve had in my life, Oswald. Where you touch me and hold me with such _tenderness_ —something I struggle to accept on occasion—they _maimed_ me. I’ve been beaten, burned, stabbed, lacerated, isolated and starved. I have more scars on my body than I care to count…and I want them removed. I want them gone. It’s—I try to—I _need_ to make the marks my own, to make _my body_ my _own_ , to overwrite the people stitched into my skin, to cancel out their hate.”

“But you need to understand, Oswald, when I—when I hurt myself,” Ed grimaces, his face vainly trying to conceal the pain within, “it’s rarely intentional. I don’t have the spatial awareness others do. Being so… _numb_ , it’s easy to forget I can still be harmed. Then there are the other times, you’ve seen them, the mental lapses, the—you know what it is I’m referring to.” Ed shudders and rubs at his arm. “Pain, injuring myself, it’s a release from the burning inside of me, the only way for me to find _clarity_ in _calamity_. It’s cathartic in the most controversial and contradictory way.”

Oswald buries his nose in Ed’s hair, slightly curled, full and soft, and breathes in the smell of his shampoo deeply. He can’t identify the smell—maybe it’s coconut—but it’s heavenly, it’s _Ed_ , and Oswald treasures it. Blinking back the tears that have been pricking at his eyes since Ed started describing the pain of his past, Oswald clings tighter to Ed and holds him close, trying to show how much he cherishes him. It’s needed right now, even if Ed won’t ask for it, it’s obvious by his pose that he craves it.

“You’ve said _many_ contradictory things, Ed, but first and foremost I _love you_ , so I want to come to understand your concerns. Firstly, I’m sorry I caused you to hurt yourself. I’m so, so sorry. I wish I could promise there was a better alternative had I not sent you away, but I was struggling with my own problems then…Ed, I…I almost lashed out in worse anger. That’s something you _never_ deserve, from _anyone_ , least of all _me_ , who is supposed to be protecting you…”

Oswald drops his head to kiss the back of Ed’s neck, then encourages him to turn around, so they’re facing each other. “You need to work on this spacial awareness thing, too. Can’t have my most treasured, beloved one hurting himself.” He leans in and kisses Ed softly, tracing his fingers down Ed’s cheek. “Secondly, I’ve only ever known you as you are now, and scars are only that—badly-healed skin. They mean nothing more than you want them to. If you want to be free of what they represent…think of your skin as I do. Blemish-free… _perfect_ …a blank canvas you allow me to _mark up_.”

Ed’s eyes flutter shut, giving the illusion that he’s at peace, but Oswald can _tell_ there’s something bubbling under the surface.

“Why do you seem so pensive? You’re distant.”

“ _No_ ,” Ed counters, unhelpfully. He does this to Oswald—like Oswald will know what it means!

Oswald huffs, considering how next to proceed. “Ed, there’s…there’s something in what you said just now that…that I think we should discuss. We’ve been edging around the corner of it for some time now and there’s elements of what you’ve explained to me that make me think—”

“ _Oswald_ ,” Ed asks, biting his lip, reaching for Oswald’s touch again.

“You _cannot_ run about in life _harming yourself_ through negligence _or_ sorrow, and you cannot be expected to live under the weight of your struggles alone. All of these things are somehow able to coexist, and I need to make sure that the pieces that coincide with _me_ are… _safe_ for you.”

Sighing, Oswald continues. “I won’t let myself be the man I once was, who hurt others without consideration, but there’s…plenty of moments between us you _encourage_ a darker set of desires that…quite clearly _both_ of us apparently possess.”

_This_ makes Ed pick his head up.

“You’ve asked me to…take control, to pull and _dig_ and…” Oswald still gets bashful discussing these things; it’s all still so _new_ to him. “I won’t allow you to hurt yourself, not while I’m in your life to assist you, nor will I _ever_ allow myself to hurt you as those _disgusting cretins_ of your past have—” he has to cut himself off from envisioning their deaths in grand detail…and as far as he understands it, there’s none of them left _for_ him to seek retribution for their sins against a younger Ed, anyway— “but I also need to understand the part of you that seeks _catharsis_ from harm, because…that’s something I could facilitate for you. _Willingly_. With rules you have to _follow_ in place, but…it is a line you and I have already begun to cross, so I believe you are…amiable to it?”

“I like rules,” Ed says, smiling, head cocked to the side. He entwines the fingers of his _good hand_ with Oswald’s, not wanting to risk touching him with the other one after how he previously reacted. “I like knowing what they entail, as well as determining how to break them. They’re but an obstacle to work around, and I have discarded many.”

Oswald’s eyebrows narrow over his nose, like a drawbridge slowly coming into alignment over a river. Shuffling forward on his knees, Ed massages away the rigid crease with the pad of his thumb, rubbing in small circles until it fades. “Yours are the exception, Oswald, just as you yourself are. The rules you have pressed onto me, I’ve tried to follow…granted I wasn’t very diligent in the beginning, but if you have new rules, I will follow them. I’d do _anything_ for you.”

Oswald grins: it’s soft, tender. Much like his earlier caress on Ed’s cheek, and the brush of lips against Ed’s own, it’s reverent, and cherishing…wholesome. _He’s not always so gentle,_ Ed notes, recalling the way Oswald occasionally tugs sharply on the strands of Ed’s hair when his control slips, and that one time Oswald dragged him out of Kristen’s apartment, wrist captured tightly, causing Ed’s world to tilt slightly under such _direction_. He wants that, both forms of expression, of touch, Oswald’s touches. To wear his marks, proudly, _happily…_

Ed shudders.

“Yes,” he blurts, pecking a kiss to Oswald’s lips. “Yes,” he repeats, tightening his hold around Oswald’s hand. “I’m in agreement—more than agreement. Rules, your marks…I want that. I _need_ that. I’d love that. Are you certain?”

“I’m…certain,” Oswald responds, gripping Ed’s hand back tightly in return. “I have…some _hesitations_ , still, but that’s to be expected…this is new, for me, for both of us, after all…” he looks away, at some unremarkable spot on the floor, as he processes his thoughts.

Flicking his eyes back to Ed, Oswald begins detailing what he feels are the key points. “The most important rule is that you will _do what I say_. If a situation escalates too quickly, or you aren’t handling it well, I will _stop_ and you must _listen_ and obey that! We both know how you get, Ed, you don’t listen!”

Ed’s eyes track back and forth over Oswald’s face, and Oswald frowns, then sighs. This is too similar to the days Ed insisted Oswald act as his _mentor_ —going back and forth over _nothing_ , Oswald lecturing while Ed listens, then deciding to ignore him _anyway_. The last thing Oswald wants is to repeat the past.

“Come here,” Oswald orders, enveloping his arms around Ed. They can figure out what works for them as they proceed. “Is the worst of it on your back?” Oswald asks, stroking a hand down the back of Ed’s shirt. He feels Ed nod, his face pressed against Oswald’s. Thumbing the hem of Ed’s shirt, Oswald slides his hands under and lifts it up, Ed sliding his arms out from inside as they both pull the garment over Ed’s head. Cupping his hands over Ed’s bare skin, Oswald traces over the myriad of scars strewn across his back, mapping out, in detail this time, what he’s only felt through accident, when they’ve made love.

“Do they hurt?” Oswald whispers, bringing his hands back to Ed’s shoulders. He shakes his head no, clings to Oswald’s waist while he answers.

“That’s good,” Oswald nods too, comfortable with his idea now. Digging his fingers into Ed’s flesh (which earns him a soft gasp) he starts to drag his fingers _down_ , blunt fingernails scratching tracks into Ed’s skin. Ed _shivers_ in his arms as he moves to his mid-shoulder blade, working slowly and sharply.

“Only these count,” Oswald rasps, gripping his fingertips in tighter, “not the others. Think of this as your reset.” _And they’ll fade_ , Oswald thinks as his breathing grows more measured, head rushing with the weight of the thrill of what he’s doing, but he doesn’t share that with Ed, that last conscious thought, as he’s washed away in the sounds Ed is making as he proceeds with creating his first marks.

“ _Ungh, Oswald_ ,” Ed moans, arching into the touch, smiling as his skin prickles. “Again, please, _more_ ,” he begs, scrambling forward to straddle Oswald’s thighs and press kisses to every inch of skin he can find. He doesn’t have to wait long; Oswald rakes his nails down, and Ed quivers, concentrating heavily on each touch.

In recent years pain, for Ed, has become somewhat clarific. It clears away the ominous fog covering his mind, allowing him to see sharply again. Under Oswald’s hands, it’s drawn back in, only it’s not oppressive, it’s _invigorating._ He presses his body into Oswald’s, clutches his shoulders, and chants the sounds of his bliss.

Every scratch is a little firmer, a little _deeper._ Every upstroke, soft and gentle. Ed tries to savor both sensations, to anticipate the next action, but at the last second Oswald changes it up on him, reversing the order. “ _Oh god,_ ” Ed groans, head falling to Oswald’s shoulder, stomach twinging in a way that causes his head to spin.

“You—I—” Ed stumbles over his words, unsure to himself what he is trying to convey. Instead of speaking, he leans back to cup Oswald’s cheeks, cracking open his eyes to grant himself a quick snap of Oswald’s flushed features and blown pupils, before kissing him, and gasping into his mouth.

Ed slides lower in Oswald’s lap, his hardness pushing into Oswald’s belly, slick and wet already with how much he’s leaking. Oswald can _tell_ how much Ed’s enjoying this, even without those indicators, but still, he’s not far along enough yet for Oswald’s _liking_.

Running his teeth bluntly across the scar on Ed’s neck, Ed _jerks_ and cries out, body arched like a taut bow. That’s when Oswald drives his fingernails in _harder_ , and he swears he must’ve broken the skin based on the shout Ed gives, his head thrown back, mouth a large _o_. He bends his spine sharper, pressing closer still against Oswald, as his limbs go loose in Oswald’s arms. By the time Oswald reaches the end of the back of Ed’s rib cage and starts down the curve of his waist, Ed’s fingers fumble and twitch, clutching to Oswald’s shoulders for life while he moans in a near-continual chorus.

Oswald’s never _felt_ anything like this—the rush of being _this_ in control during sex, this version of _violent_ where, instead of feeling wild with rage and lost to reason, Oswald feels _purposeful_ , focused, and _so_ pleased to find a way to deal out pain without having it truly _hurt_. To serve Ed in a sense, and to have Ed serve him in return, delivering him with something this clearly liberating (liberating for _both_ of them) blanks his mind out like a blizzard with pleasure and a sense of _belonging_. He belongs here, doing this, both of them sharing this. His breaths come shallowly and rapidly, every sound and moment of _appreciation_ from Ed burning through his veins, sends his head spinning.

Finishing his slow descent down the small of Ed’s back, he nips at Ed’s jaw, working the underside of his chin, all that sensitive skin laid bare and _open_ to Oswald to do whatever he pleases…Ed tries to say Oswald’s name a few times, and Oswald can tell he’s coming back into himself—he’s fine, starting to grin, his features lax from the state of submission he’s in, and _that’s_ when Oswald quickly runs his hands back to the top of Ed’s back, under the base of the back of his neck, and _tears_ his fingernails down Ed’s back in one whip-like flourish.

_That_ knocks Ed back distracted, screeching a melody of various desperate, erotic whimpers that drown any other sound out of Oswald’s ears. Shuddering, Ed idly twitches in Oswald’s lap, and Oswald encourages Ed to flop on his back, holding him around the torso with both hands, laying Ed down himself when Ed can’t pay attention enough to comply.

“I want to taste you,” Oswald husks, lazily open-mouth kissing his way down Ed’s chest, rubbing his lips along his fever-warm skin, “but I think you’ll come the moment I do.” Ed whines a high-pitch way that sounds like _yes_ , so Oswald dips down to take Ed in, thrilled with how fast Ed’s hips buck and he spills, true to Oswald’s words.

“Shh,” Oswald soothes, when he hears Ed hiccup, still shuddering. “You’re so beautiful, you know, destroyed like this, you did so good for me,” Oswald murmurs, sliding up to lay beside Ed and stroke his hair, kiss his cheek, returning to the doting, protective, cherishing baseline Oswald loves to lavish Ed with, as they both work on coming down, but even then, Oswald can’t help but imagine what _other_ ways he can make Ed _this_ debauched and uninhibited, loose and flushed and so, _so_ gorgeous.

“ _Mmmm_ ,” Ed hums, flopping his arm to the side, and in uncoordinated jerky movements, he brushes his knuckles up and down Oswald’s arm, feeling blissfully blank. It’s like every ounce of discomfort has been siphoned from his body and transfused with—Ed, smiles, _tries_ to smile, his face won’t comply, and his mind can’t locate a profound enough adjective to describe the feelings he is and isn’t experiencing.

Tilting his head back, Ed brushes his nose against Oswald’s, and ghosts their lips together, chasing the soft affection he’s come to fully accept, expect and _adore._ All those gentle touches, and heartfelt words makes Ed feel—they make him _feel._ He feels at peace, tranquil, content, loved, and for the first time ever, _comfortable_ in his skin.

“Thank you,” Ed croaks, through a full-bodied shudder, and _oh_ , the way the marks on his back twinge in response, makes him gasp and wriggle slightly, prolonging the sensation, before falling still again. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Oswald replies, kissing Ed once more, then again, soft yet haphazard. Ed looks like he’s about to fall asleep, but Oswald isn’t about to anytime soon, his body still _very_ much in a high-strung state. Running his nails down Ed’s side, his hand turned around backwards so the flat sides of his nails, and only a hint of sharp edge, touch Ed’s skin this time, making Ed shudder and soundlessly whimper with the ghost of sensation before.

“Hopefully whatever you were so crabby about before is over now,” Oswald teases, huffing a laugh, warm breath brushing Ed’s face.

Bracing a hand down, Oswald begins to sit up, ready to get some needed items—cotton pads, witch hazel, and finally some cream for Ed’s hand, but as he starts to move away, Ed snaps out of his daze and wraps _all_ of his long limbs around Oswald in a flash, clinging to him and pinning him back to the bed.

“No, _no_ , _stay_ , Oswald, I want—I— _you_ need to—” Ed lets out an exasperated sigh. “Cuddle me,” Ed whines, face buried in Oswald’s neck. Clucking again, Oswald complies.

He’s not sure where to put his hands other than against Ed’s chest, as Ed kisses any spot on Oswald’s skin he can reach (oh, how he _adores_ Ed’s focus on affection, how lovely it is to be lavished in Ed’s enraptured devotion, how Ed’s touches fulfills a desperate longing, but it is never enough to truly sate). Sometimes Ed moves just so that his back must _hurt_ and he shudders with aftershocks of what is clearly _pleasurable_ sensation for him. Oswald’s been _interested_ in this kind of dynamic for _many_ years now and to experience with his love this new reciprocal indulgence for them both is exquisite, _much_ better than only reading about it.

None of these thoughts or touches from Ed are helping him calm down _or_ make sure Ed receives proper aftercare, but he’s also not going to argue with or ever _stop_ Ed’s affections, or stop him from returning them. He wants to be held, _cuddled_? Oswald will never deny him.

Ed brushes his lips across Oswald’s jaw, neck, and collarbone, paying homage to the man who continues to give and give and _give_ without asking for much in return. Well, returning the favor is what Ed would like to do, so with a glide of his fingers, he snakes his digits down Oswald’s torso, to the curve of his protruding hip bones, teasing the sensitive skin, treasuring the fluctuations in Oswald’s breath.

“You—you can’t go yet—” Ed wraps his fingers around Oswald, flexes his wrist, and pecks Oswald’s lips with a quick kiss, “—not yet, not until you’re done.”

Oswald raises a brow, but nods, worming an arm around Ed’s waist, tugging him impossibly closer, not that Ed’s complaining; he adores their close proximity, and their constant contact, now more than ever. To feel their skin sliding against each other, to swallow down Oswald’s moans, to watch the fluttering of his eyelashes—Ed shudders when Oswald’s fingers gently graze against the tender patches on his back.

Joints still langid, held under whatever stasis Oswald has infused him with, Ed works his hand up and down Oswald’s length. He will not let exhaustion, completion, _anything,_ hold him back, he wants to watch Oswald as he comes, track the minute differences in his facial expressions, remain closely pressed.

Capturing Oswald’s lips in a slow kiss, breath shared back and forth, Ed breaks away to yawn. “Sorry, sorry, that’s not attractive, I know. I’m just—” he smiles sheepishly, “—you wore me out, but that doesn’t mean—I still want you to—”

Shuddering, Oswald almost groans, but it only comes out as a silent huff of warm breath against Ed’s mouth. Before he can even try to answer again, Ed traces his fingers along Oswald, then _twists_ his hand again, and Oswald’s eyes roll back into his head, eyelids sliding shut as he curses, clutching Ed’s hip as they move ever closer.

“Put your thighs together,” Oswald instructs, pushing on Ed’s knee from where it’s perched on top of his hips. “I have an idea.”

Ed _snaps_ his legs into position, despite how lax his body is, and it _thrills_ Oswald to know it was because he _ordered_ him to that he complied, and so efficiently. There’s _never_ a time Ed isn’t eager and longing for…for _everything_ , but he’s especially agreeable and pliant when he’s both sleepy and turned on, and Oswald revels in how _happy_ Ed in in these moments.

Repositioning in the most subtle of ways, Oswald situates himself at the soft juncture between Ed’s thighs, one of the only places on Ed’s lithe body that is remotely plush. “I want to have you like this,” Oswald works to explain, shifting his hips forward to demonstrate. Eyes still closed, he breathes in the quiet inhalation Ed makes in response, and is surrounded by the sound of Ed slowly enunciated _yes_ , before he pushes in, sliding between Ed’s clenched legs, gripping the back of one thigh and driving his fingertips possessively into Ed’s warm flesh.

Ed groans. The feeling of Oswald thrusting against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs is far more salacious than he expected. His body is quick to react to the stimulation: to the push and pull, the warms puffs of breath on his face, the way he is grasped tightly, drawn closer, Oswald using him for _his_ pleasure. It’s beautiful, it’s _erotic_ , and for once Ed doesn’t chase his own release because this isn’t about him.

Trailing a hand up and down Oswald’s side, Ed _squeezes_ his legs together, and treasures the corresponding gasp and shudder passing through the man cursing his name, and _oh_ when Oswald captures Ed’s lips in a kiss, he immediately surrenders to it. He loves it, loves _him_ , loves Oswald’s fire, loves the flames that do not burn but fill him with heat.

“God, _Oswald,_ ” Ed groans, breaking away to gulp down a mouthful of air; it doesn’t help, his head is spinning, eyes weighted closed.

Ed rests his hand over Oswald’s heart, taking notice of the way it stutters and sings beneath his palm, hammering in an increased rhythm. Ed longs to count the beats, time the minuscule spaces between each contraction, listen to the way it races when Oswald’s orgasm takes hold—so, with an arch of his body, Ed presses his ear to Oswald’s chest.

It doesn’t take long for Oswald to find his release. A hand is clapped to the back of Ed’s head, tangling itself in the strands of his hair, the other one is over Ed’s hip, nails biting into his skin as Oswald’s thrusts become less coordinated and his moans more elongated. The speed of Oswald’s heart increases, doubling over itself, before the sound is washed away with a shout, and Ed’s inner thighs are coated with a sticky warmth.

As happy as Oswald would be with keeping Ed in his arms and falling back asleep together like this, he knows he only has a few precious moments after orgasming to clean Ed up before the man gets _fussy_ about being sticky and messy. Pecking the top of Ed’s head a few times, Oswald works on catching his breath and letting his racing heart slow down, his ears ringing and skin still tingling.

For the second time this morning, Oswald rises from Ed’s bed— _their_ bed is what he initially thinks of it as—and goes to retrieve the wipes Ed keeps in his dresser. This time, Ed doesn’t protest; he looks exhausted and interestingly enough, thoughtful. Oswald wonders what he’s thinking as he dabs at the back of Ed’s legs, working his way around. Finishing, he tosses them away and tugs on his pajama pants, before heading to the kitchen to throw some oatmeal on to boil. (Ed went out and bought some for him when he mentioned that he typically had a bowl every morning since childhood—usually, Ed insisted on doing all the cooking, but he was open to allowing Oswald to make it the first morning they had it, which was sweet and pleasantly domestic.)

Curiosity gets the better of him by the time he comes back from the bathroom with the first-aid supplies, laying them beside still-blissed out Ed, his other hand holding a cup of water. “Ed, sit up and take a sip of this,” Oswald asks nicely, and Ed shakes his head. “It’s important aftercare,” Oswald pushes the issue farther. _According to the books, it is vitally important._ Finally, Ed rises just enough to take one gulp of water, and hands the glass back, flopping on his stomach, still dazed.

“Flip over,” Oswald is a bit more forceful this time, feeling the change in pitch of his voice, based on _how_ intent he is on getting Ed to do something by appealing to his submissive longings. A nudge of Ed’s shoulder and that change in tone is enough to get him to comply this time, and he _purrs_ with contentment each time Oswald dabs at a new set of fierce red marks on Ed’s back with witch hazel-soaked cotton.

“Give me your hand next.” Oswald’s ready with the tube of cream, but Ed shakes his head.

“I don’t want that—it smells bad,” he wrinkles his nose, face perched on his folded arms, still laying on his stomach.

Oswald sighs. “Well, we’re using _something_ , since you didn’t ice it long.” Where is the bag of ice, anyway? Oh well, Ed can deal with the mess later, there’s only so much Oswald can do at once. “You don’t have aloe, so…”

“Yes I do,” Ed whines, pouting. “Use the plant.”

“The _plant_?” Oswald raises his brows.

“The _plant_ ,” Ed mimics, but condescendingly, pointing behind himself without looking, towards the table with Ed’s sewing machine on it, in the corner of the room.

Oswald goes over to inspect. He’s right—he _does_ own an aloe vera plant. This is the first time Oswald’s noticed it, and also the first time he’s had a proper look at the antique sewing machine. He would _love_ using this…maybe he could look at fabrics later, start thinking about making something new for himself _and_ Ed. Oswald spends enough time staring at Ed, and is almost certain he can accurately guess his measurements.

Remembering the plant, Oswald pulls on one of the thick leaves. “How do I do this?” he asks, over his shoulder. Just then, the pot on the stove begins to boil, and he curses, making his way back to the kitchen area. He really should be using his cane…it’s hard to not miss the freedom he took for granted all his life, walking short distances like this, without pain or difficulty….

“Just leave it!” Ed complains, rolling onto his side to glare at Oswald. “Come back to me.”

“After I finish tending to you!” Oswald purses his lips and twists his head to shoot Ed a fierce glare back. “It’s my _responsibility_ now, I _want to_ , and we both know you won’t.” With that retort, he stomps over to the stovetop, and Ed dramatically huffs, making his displeasure known. Reaching out with his long arms, Ed snags the corner of his comforter and in one even more dramatic flourish, pulls it around himself, twists inside it, and curls into a ball, the duvet wide enough to actually cover him from the top of his head to his toes.

“Really, Ed, there’s no need to have yourself a sulk.”

Ed doesn’t respond, and Oswald can’t help but smile. Ed thinks _Oswald’s_ the only one prone to mood shifts?

He leaves Ed to… _whatever_ he’s doing, while Oswald readies a small bowl of oatmeal for Ed. By the time he makes it back, he has to hold onto the railing at the foot of the bed to balance. This morning wasn’t exactly lacking in physical demands… “Ed, it’s time to eat.”

There’s a small pause until Oswald hears a muffled voice complain, “I don’t want any.”

“Surely your blood sugar has dropped. That was… _intense_ , and I won’t have you fainting!”

“M’n’gonna _faint,_ ” is all Oswald hears from under the blanket. 

He grimaces and pounds his fist against the metal. “Oh, come on! Now is not the time to _test_ things!”

Ed sits up in a flurry after that line, blinking owlishly, hair hilariously rucked up straight off his head on one side.

Mouth in a thin line, he takes the bowl from Oswald, shoves one bite in his mouth, swallows it instantly, and thrusts it back at Oswald, before diving back under the comforter.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Oswald mutters, putting the bowl down on the bedside table. He picks it up again, steals a few bites for himself, then returns it to its new place, before turning back to look at Ed, or rather, the Ed-shaped pile on the bed.

“Has anyone ever told you how oversized of a person you are?” Oswald muses, smiling softly. “You’re just…too _long_.”

Ed rolls over enough to peek the top of his head out from under his hiding place, face still shielded below his eyeline, messy hair somehow worse already, his soft, brown eyes narrowing as he considers Oswald’s playful words. “Perhaps your perspective is affected by how short you are.”

“I’m not…I’m not that _short_ , Ed, whereas you are significantly _taller_ than most people—”

“You are short.”

“I’m _not_ , truly not that—”

“But that’s a fact. Facts are always true.”

“I’m not short, Ed!”

Ed stares at him for a long time. “You’re compact,” he decides on that being the end of his argument, and with it, he slides back into his self-made cocoon.

It’s getting cold in the room, Oswald’s legs are sore, and he’s tired of standing, of being away from Ed, no matter how fun teasing him is. “Can I come in, please?”

“ _No_.” 

The Ed-bundle doesn’t move or answer again, dragging on the silence, before one arm shoots out, duvet balled in his fist, making a tent-like entrance for Oswald to climb in.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he says, sardonically sweet, gently kneeling, then crawling under Ed’s arm, this time being his turn to wrap himself around his boyfriend and snuggle in the warm, dark, comforting spot Ed’s created.

Ed sighs, tension beginning to wane the very moment Oswald moulds against his sensitive back. The pain is fading too quickly for Ed’s liking, but the tenderness present is soothing, solidiatory, grounding. Having been so swiftly separated after their _passionate_ morning was a reality Ed didn’t want to face for a few hours—or minutes at least—but Oswald was in a rush to do everything at once. _Where is his pause button? Does he have one?_

Huffing sharply out his nose, Ed rubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to clear his palate of the lingering coating of _gloop._ Oatmeal…it’s a worthy substitute of paste, not that Ed’s ever eaten paste, or felt an inkling too, but the similarity is apparent.

His mind shouts at him for water, but that involves moving, shedding blankets, and extracting himself from the comfort of Oswald’s arms; three things he’s reluctant to do.

“You haven’t done this before,” Oswald whispers, cutting through the silence, pressing a kiss to the back of Ed’s neck.

“Just because you haven’t seen it happen, doesn’t mean it hasn’t.” His self-made burrow is tranquil: dark, plush, warm, secular, a small safe place where the outside world doesn’t exist. A place for him to hide, to recollect, to seek comfort, to now share with Oswald, too. “I like it in here. Transmutation without tragedy, like a caterpillar without liquidisation.”

Ed feels Oswald nod against the back of his head. _Is that in understanding?_ he wonders, but the thought is silenced as he takes note of the way Oswald’s chest rises and falls against his back, their breaths in unison.

“Any chance you want to tell me what has you so perturbed?” Oswald gently prods, stroking his hand down Ed’s side and up his back, tracing the sensitive marks etched into his skin.

Ed shudders and clenches his jaw shut, willing himself silent, hoping to prolong the brief bout of serenity, but instead finds himself muttering, “What does man love more than life, fear more than death, or mortal strife?” There’s more to the riddle, but Ed’s too lazy to complete it. “Nothing.” _You didn’t stay and cuddle with me. You made me eat…oatmeal. You didn’t stay._

“Nothing,” Ed repeats, swallowing thickly. A lying tongue paints poison on the soul. He thinks about the glass of water again, clear, pure, untainted, the way it shines in the light. _What you see is what you get._

Oswald exhales slowly, in one elongated stream, and the air under the comforter grows thick, heavy. It settles in Ed’s lungs like sediment in a solution. Further infliction, blame falling on his own shoulders.

“What happened this morning?” Oswald prods, clearly not letting the issue go, and Ed says the first thing that come to mind.

“We… _canoodled?_ ”

“C-canoodled,” Oswald scoffs, humorously.

“Canoodled. Canoodling. Hanky-panky,” Ed rambles, rolling over to wrap his _long_ limbs around Oswald, before pecking a kiss to his lips. “Intercourse, we had intercourse.”

Oswald smiles, it’s brief, but no less beautiful. A treasured snapshot. Ed finds himself snuggling in closer, wanting to tuck his head under Oswald’s jaw, but a hand cups his cheek, thumb stroking his lip. “Ed, my dearest, don’t play dumb with me, you’re far too smart for that.”

Pouting overdramatically, Ed props himself up, and the blanket lifts with him. Light floods into his dark sanctuary and caressing Oswald’s temples, gliding through the strands of his hair. A halo of sorts.

“We aren’t innocent men,” Ed shares, disliking the way Oswald’s hands still for a fraction of a second, before resuming its path up his back. “We’ve killed people, hurt others, usually for our own enjoyment, but we changed. We created a new path, a new direction, and took hold of our destiny.” Ed’s stomach twists in on itself. “K-Kristen doesn’t like that. She thinks that the nature of our relationship is… _creepy_ , because we are—or I am—trying to be someone I’m not.”

Ed can’t look at Oswald’s face, he doesn’t want to know the secrets behind his expressions, not right now, so with quickened movements, he drops himself back down onto the mattress, rolls over, and tugs Oswald’s arm over him.

“I called her this morning, we had an argument. She was kind in the beginning, most likely tired, but by the end of it she spouted nothing but hate: hate for me, for you, for the end of who I used to be. She called you a _failure—_ you’re not—said our relationship is _doomed_ , that it is unrealistic, unsustainable nonsense. She’s wrong. She might not believe so, but she is. It doesn’t have to be that way, just because she says so. She doesn’t hold the keys to fate.”

Chewing on the inside of his lip, Ed bites down hard and shakes his head. She turned on him so quickly. What happened to supportive Kristen who only wanted to see him happy? Does she want him to fail? Why can’t she accept that the life she lives doesn’t have to be shared?

“Do I have to keep speaking about this? I’d rather forget it ever happened.”

Ignoring Ed’s request to stop talking about it—he knows Kristen Kringle is essentially Ed’s only family; no matter how much he wants to not discuss them having a fight, the two of them aren’t suddenly going to stop being in each other’s lives—Oswald considers how to respond. “I know she doesn’t like me,” he says, his face saying _so what?_ with a lift of his eyebrows and a slight twist of his head. “I figured that out the first time I met her.”

Stretching his arms over his head, Oswald yawns, then stretches his toes, legs extended out straight—or as best he can anymore—until the muscles don’t ache quite as bad. “At the same time, she and I are…connected now. For _life_.”

Ed looks confused; Oswald elaborates. “You’re right—killing taints you soul for life. But so does saving someone’s life. Not taints—touches. You would know,” he smiles, rubbing the back of his hand along Ed’s torso, rapping his knuckles along Ed’s side for emphasis. “You saved mine, and it changed _everything_. The course of our lives.”

Looking at the fan overhead rotating, Oswald bites his lip before he makes his next point. “I think Kristen’s jealous.”

“ _What?_ ” Ed practically snarls. He sounds frustrated now, in addition to the lingering confusion.

“Not of _us_ , of _this_ ,” Oswald explains, turning to face Ed. He strokes down from Ed’s knee to thigh, both in comfort and to satisfy his addiction to Ed’s skin, never wanting to be out of contact with it long. “But of losing her friend to a usurper, her partner to a new lifestyle…I get it.” He thinks back on high school, on Victor Fries, on how it felt to lose someone close when he had no one else. Kristen’s version is no doubt slightly different, but it’s easy to draw a comparison between his own past and her present.

“ _I_ used to think it was ‘creepy’ that you wanted to change your life, too.” Oswald reaches up to thumb the scar on Ed’s neck, and oh, what an ever-complicating meaning _that_ mark has now, “I wish I had understood right away, but it took many trials, and much error, before I understood. Before _we_ understood.”

Inhaling slowly, Oswald watches Ed’s distant eyes, the way his head droops. “Time will prove your friend wrong about us,” Oswald croaks out—and it bothers him that his voice cracks, because he means what he says, so why does he sound unsure? “Don’t call her again, that will only exacerbate things. Remember how we tried to meet in person to talk after our massive…disagreement-incident? Ignoring the bad fate that befell us in regards to personal safety, it certainly worked out in the end that we spoke face-to-face. Go see her later and sort this out. She doesn’t have to agree with you, but she will learn to respect your choices when it comes to how you conduct yourself now…and who you share your love with.”

Wrapping an arm around Ed’s waist, and sitting up enough to meet him halfway, he gives him a gentle tug to indicate that he wants them to go back to holding each other. Is their relationship doomed? The word choice is too strong, but Oswald hates that part of him resonates with the sentiment. They’d _rushed_ into this relationship because…because every atom in Oswald’s body felt _magnetized_ to, compelled to share _all_ they already have—a true friendship and heart-soaring romance, and in addition, the physical compatibility they share, communicating and connecting on increasingly intimate levels, in ways Oswald never thought he’d share with _anyone_ , least of all the _Chess Killer_ , who once ‘kidnapped’ him after he saved a redheaded woman’s life.

Oswald smiles again. That’s one whole tapestry of interwoven lines of fate Oswald never predicted, never had the slightest inclination of it existing, yet it’s the most beautiful one of his entire life—of that, he is beyond certain.

“Ed…we’ve never been on a date. Not a proper one. The closest being the night your problem-friend dragged us out to the club.”

“What difference does that make?” Ed asks, sounding bitter.

“None, none at all,” Oswald reassures, petting him again. “I just want to take you on a date, that’s all. Out somewhere nice…just the two of us, as the cliche goes…” Tracing made-up patterns into Ed’s skin, Oswald wrinkles his brow. “When is your birthday?” Surely it was in Ed’s file, but Oswald can’t remember even reading it, likely having skipped that section to read the more detailed parts of its contents.

“It was in April,” Ed replies softly. “It’s already passed.”

“Next year, then,” Oswald muses, planning the evening already. “Not our first date—I might not be a man of means, but I will find a way to wine and dine you _somehow_ , sometime in the next week, at least, but for your birthday…I’m sure by then I could secure reservations to Cherry’s. Have you heard of it?”

Ed shakes his head. “Those are the kinds of things I’ve never paid attention to.”

“It’s the best restaurant in Gotham, a handful of years running.” Oswald had always wanted to dine there, planned to, once he was King…blinking the thought away, Oswald returns to what he _wants_ to imagine: Ed.

Ed, glowing in the warm, golden light, wearing something _sharp_ , silken…and of course, _green_ , seated across from Oswald in one of the intimate corners of the establishment, the best live jazz performers playing what will feel like the soundtrack to their love, the richest wine staining their lips as they hold hands and kiss, not caring what anyone around them thinks…he would ask Ed to dance, would try his best to lead them out onto the floor. The owner herself would surely stop by to give them her best wishes, and when Ed least expects it, towards the end of the night, when the place is quieting down, and Oswald’s own bashful nerves have eased, and Ed feels at peace, Oswald could slide the velvet box he’ll have picked out towards his love, and hopefully…

Heart pounding so hard at the mere _thought_ , Oswald swears he could accidentally swallow his own heartbeats, he caresses Ed’s face, smiling and bites his turned-in lips. “I see you in my future, if that counts as the keys to our fate. Whatever unforeseen events the future holds…I chose to be courageous, and _believe_ that we were brought together for the _purest_ of reasons, no matter what others think…no matter what _we_ think.” He clenches Ed’s hand in his fist and holds it against his chest. “We _must_ treasure that, _must_ hold on to it.”

“How is it you always know just the right thing to say? I thought _I_ was the wordsmith in this relationship.” Ed smiles out the corner of his mouth and blinks slowly, feeling his heart swell at the tender, unguarded look Oswald shares with him. One day, somehow, someway, Ed is going to figure out a way inside Oswald’s mind, touch the depths that are kept hidden from him, and uncover the stream of thoughts he sees flashing across Oswald’s face. He looks forward to getting his hands messy.

“Treasuring you, treasuring what we have,” Ed continues, changing tracks after finally managing to locate something equally benevolent and soul-touching to say, “is something I’ll _never_ struggle with, for it is as effortless as breathing.” Slowly shuffling about, Ed repositions his head on Oswald’s chest, placing it near their interlocked hands, and pecks a kiss to each one of Oswald’s fingers.

“I’ll speak with Kristen later, in person, not on the phone, sometime this afternoon. For now, I want to nap, and think about nothing but the feeling of your arms wrapped around me.”


	14. Fastidiousness and Histrionics: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed tries to smooth things over with Kristen, but finds she isn’t home. Instead, he decides to quell Fox’s doubts about his relationship with Oswald, and in turn discovers an answer to a question he’s been asking himself for years. After Ed leaves the manor, Fox receives a visit from the last person he ever expected to see: Kristen Kringle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to get a little dicey in the JOLAY universe. We can’t wait to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Happy Reading!

Kristen isn’t home, and that’s worrisome.

Not the fact that she isn’t there, but what she has left behind.

Standing in the middle of the room, keychain dangling off his fingertip, Ed pauses to take it all in. There are dishes in the sink, unrinsed, stacked haphazardly, unwashed clothes overflowing from the hamper; the take out containers in the trash appear as though they now host microbial life, and the empty bottles of whiskey are something he sneers at in distaste.

For an organized person like Kristen, this is chaos. Ed shudders. It looks like the aftermath of his brain after a breakdown. Unorganized, discompatmentalized. The teacup Kristen was likely drinking from earlier has been shattered into shards, with jagged pieces littering the countertop and floor. An anger-induced outburst. Ed tries not to focus on them too much, on the way the porcelain pieces will never connect as they once did. There will always be something missing, some miniscule, unlocatable splinter wormed between the cracks in the floorboards, lost and forgotten.

Carding a hand through his hair, he sighs, shoulders drooping. _She’s slipping again._

He hasn’t seen anything like this since Dougherty and the others were dealt with, since the pair of them eradicated her abusers, condition settled only by Kristen adopting her persona. Red is a fitting moniker, Ed’s always thought so, for a multitude of reasons: her hair, her temper, her nature… _blood_ , but this isn’t Red, this is Kristen.

He should have put it together sooner: the drinking, the moodswings, the weeks without contact. Something is wrong, something more than Oswald, more than himself, and for some reason she hasn’t broached the topic with him. _Or has she?_ Ed wonders, and guilt fills the spaces around his heart, constricting tighter than the shaking fist of the law. As of late, all their conversations have been catering to Ed’s own issues, detailed with his _own_ confusion and confliction…

_Does she no longer trust me? Maybe this is about Oswald. He’s the only new variable._

The frustration from earlier returns, it settles high in his chest, a singular burning ball, sun caged in darkness. Oswald so wisely said she will grow to respect their relationship, but Ed doesn’t want to have to wait an unknown length of time, he wants instant results, or visible efforts made to meet him halfway. She needs to understand that Oswald isn’t doing him a disservice by being in his life, it’s quite the opposite. He makes him happy, makes him feel cherished, special, adored— _everyone_ needs to be made aware of this, then maybe, just maybe, all this hostility can be put to rest.

Ed’ll shout it from rooftops if he has to, hack the city’s lights to flash it in morse code, he’ll even repurpose the newspapers if needs be: Oswald reforms the Riddler, through happiness, love, and acceptance. Further details on page two.

Ed huffs, shrugs off his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. Kristen might not be here, but he can’t leave her apartment in such a sorry state of affairs, not when she’s so clearly incapable of cleaning it herself, so he sets to restoring it, in hopes that by the time time he has completed his self-assigned task, she returns…but she doesn’t.

_How am I supposed to resolve this rift between us, if she is not around?_

Rubbing at his wrist, pressing the pads of his fingers into the small, protruding bone, Ed aquiates a piece of paper, and one of several green pens Kristen keeps on hand for himself. A phone call he refuses to make, but a message he can still leave, one he knows will reach through her desolation.

With his usual flourish, he signs his mark—one he hasn’t drawn in months—and beside it writes: _I am a ship that can be made to ride the greatest waves. I am not built by objects, but built by minds. What am I?_

Over the past few years, Kristen has become fairly proficient at riddles, so Ed doesn’t have any concerns over her capability to answer it correctly. On the off-chance she does struggle, he’s certain he’ll about it, she can never keep her disdain to herself for long, and that will give him the opportunity he seeks to reconnect on better terms.

 _What now?_ Ed asks himself, slipping on his jacket, adjusting it with a few precise tugs. Remaining at Kristen’s is unnecessary, they’ll be speaking before the day’s end, yet returning home— _Foxy!_

Ed snatches up his keys, caps the pen, and leaves the apartment. After the way their last conversation shifted, Ed is reluctant to visit so soon, but that is the very reason he must. If he is unable to rectify things with Kristen, he may as well repurpose that conversation to a new recipient. Understanding leads to clarity, and if there is a chance one of his friends opens their eyes, and peers through his, then his outing will not be for naught.

…and Fox is almost always home.

~~~

“Fox,” Ed shouts upon entering the manor, door closing behind him with a reverberating _bang_. The sound shudders the air like the precipice of an oncoming storm, _charged,_ and snakes down the endless corridors, lost somewhere in the depths of the house where shadows only dwell. With a tug on his cuffs, Ed makes haste after his voice, peering into several rooms along the way. “Fox, I need to speak with y— _oh_ , hello, Alfred. Excuse me, please.”

“Now hold up a second, mate,” Alfred says, raising a hand to block Ed’s path to the main study. “Can I help you? Somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” Ed deadpans, lip curled. “No, you can’t help me. I need to speak with Fox—not you.” Ducking his head, Ed brushes past the butler-slash-security-guard-slash-assassin— _how many job titles can one man possess?_ —but finds the crook of his arm captured in a firm grip. Bristling as a jolt runs through him, Ed blinks at the hand _touching_ him, at the man attached to it, at the space between Alfred’s brows, and swallows down a wave of nausea.

“Let go of me,” he orders.

“My apologies, Mr. Nygma,” Alfred says, cordially, giving Ed a quick, unwelcomed, brush down: palms trailing across his shoulders, and down the front of his jacket, “but we can’t have you breaking decorum, now can we? No, a man of sophistication like yourself wouldn’t pass on _that_ principle.”

He’s too close, too physical; Ed feels the need to wash every trace of him off his body, and expunge himself of the butler’s atoms. They don’t resonate well. An unstable element. Taking a not-so-subtle step back, Ed mumbles, “I didn’t have to do that yesterday,” as he scratches his nails across the pad of his thumb, one after the other.

“See, now there’s the distinction. Yesterday you rang ahead.”

“And the countless times before that?” Ed challenges, slightly perturbed; the air tastes metallic, he doesn’t want to be here.

Alfred folds his arms behind his back, and raises his chin. Stoic as a statue. “It’s a case-by-case thing, Mr. Nygma,” he says, tone clipped.

 _That’s highly improbable._ Fox never contests Ed’s visits, and as a rule, Alfred doesn’t either. He’s accepted here, or so he once thought. _Have I done something wrong? Where is this coming from?_ Ed narrows his eyes, brows dipping below the frames of his glasses; tilting his head to the side, he regards the man before him as one would a piece of art—with an inquisitive gaze. Alfred is behaving far too suspiciously for Ed’s liking.

Opening his mouth to comment on the situation, Ed finds himself _rudely_ spoken over.

“Shall we continue this conversation, or shall I announce your arrival?”

“Announce me,” Ed agrees, waving his hand through the air. It’s pointless to argue semantics, to press the issue further, with someone who _refuses_ to bow down to the truth and admit defeat; it’s like debating with a brick wall—you can’t expect anything more than rigidness. Alfred may be a clever man, and a proficient fighter, but a conversationalist, he is not.

“Very good, sir. Follow me.”

 _I know the way,_ Ed grouses internally, falling in line behind Alfred, heels scuffing the floor.

To be escorted through the manor is an insult to Ed’s intellect. Despite what others may believe, he is not some wayward child itching for a chance to make his escape and wreak havoc in the seams of the building. If he wanted to cause Fox trouble, he would have done so years ago, but Fox is a friend, a confidant, a buddy, a pal, someone Ed _respects_ and _admires—_ he’d never taint such a cherished relationship.

Folding his arms across his chest, Ed takes a breath, followed by another, and blankets his ire, extinguishing it as one would a small fire, but the niggling of Kristen’s comments in the back of his head has his embers glowing. _Why does she believe Fox to be untrustworthy? Why does she dislike everyone who enters my life? She tells me not to base my entire life around one person, yet she wants me secluded._

Sighing into his palm, Ed nudges his glasses up his nose. _One day she’ll see the truth._ Ed’s never put much stock in the future, for its power stems from the present—actions ripple to create entirely new sets of circumstances—but for once he finds himself planning for it, preparing for it. Casting aside the shadows of doubt, he visualises brighter horizons: a time where all his questions are answered, and his strife non-existent, a time where Kristen and Fox both see their comments aren’t necessary, for everything is perfect.

Smiling into his fingertips, Ed envisions owning an estate similar to this: something humble, but no less grand, with tall ceilings and large rooms—a library, too! It would be situated outside the city limits where the taste of fumes and the jarring sounds of traffic is replaced with the delicate scent of flowers, of greenery, of something _pure_ and _untainted_. A secluded slice of the city, crafted solely for himself and Oswald to share, a place they can live out the rest of their lives in peace. _Would Oswald allow me to carry him across the threshold? Would he want to carry me? Is he capable of doing so with his injury? Is it a practice performed only by married couples? Marriage—_

Colliding with a solid object, Ed stumbles back a step, disorientated at having been so swiftly drawn out of his fantasy. Blinking rapidly, lashes brushing the lenses of his glasses, Ed’s eyes draw focus on Alfred’s downturned face. _Oh. Oh!_ “Sorry,” he squeaks, waving his hand through the air, “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t watching… _sorry_.”

“You’re a rather absent-minded fellow, Mr. Nygma. Do you well to work on that,” Alfred says, and Ed rubs at the back of his head in embarrassment. He doesn’t mean to be, but all too often his thoughts sprout wings and soar to unreachable heights, and as much as he may scramble for purchase on them, they slip through his fingers like water.

Remaining silent, Ed waits and watches as Alfred knocks on the closed office doors, and makes his announcement, before slinking into the room.

“Edward, what a pleasant surprise,” Fox greets, as jovial as ever, stepping out from behind his desk, warm eyes shining, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“Truthfully, I wasn’t expecting to be here today either, only—” Ed finds himself wrapped in a hug, strong hands pressing firmly upon his back, causing him to gasp. He hadn’t realized his back was still so sensitive; unless he maintains continual focus, it passes by unnoticed. For once he wants to feel the scratches, the _pain_ , the tangible proof of Oswald etched into his body.

At his sides, his arms flutter and flap, until finally obeying the demands of his brain. “Don’t touch me,” he cries, pushing back on Fox’s shoulders, ripping himself out of the embrace. Those marks are Oswald’s, they’re too personal, too fresh, to be touched by another.

Fox’s face morphs into one of complete shock, then surprise, before shifting into a look of understanding. “My apologies, Edward. Is today not a hug day?”

“No, it’s not that—I’m not here to hug.” Ed pulls on the ends of his jacket, and runs his palms down his chest, flattening out the fabric. All the determination he possessed when he first arrived is lost to him; somewhere between his interaction with Alfred, and his hug with Fox, it has been squirreled away— _where is Alfred?_ Tossing his head over his shoulder he lays eyes on the closed door, and frowns. “You should make time to have a talk with your partner, Fox. He’s crossing some lines he—no, no, _wait_ , this isn’t what I’m here to speak about.”

Ed taps his frames up his nose, and refocuses, angling his body to face Fox again. Worrying his hands together, he tries to locate the best thread to start on, but there are too many, each with their own set of outcomes and reactions. Thankfully, he can always count on Foxy for calm understanding.

“I came here to tell you,” Ed starts slowly, “that I didn’t appreciate what you said yesterday. Despite what you believe, despite what Kristen believes, I am happy—more than happy.” Ed blinks, and smiles. “Oswald and I share a fulfilling relationship, built on love, trust, respect, and very _satisfying_ sexual relations. He…he…” Ed collapses into a nearby chair, legs slipping out from beneath him, and he presses his back into it, squirming slightly, “He’s skilled, in more areas than one—but he makes me eat oatmeal, too,” Ed almost shouts, slapping his hands on the armrests, “and I don’t like oatmeal.”

Fox tries his best to school his facial expression, blinking rapidly a few times to clear his head, swallowing down the perplexed (and slightly off-put) _what?_ he wants to emit in response to Ed’s bizarre tirade. _Sometimes he still throws me off, does something so outside of his behavior’s typical parameters, I could never account for it ahead of time_ …. Quirking his mouth, Fox considers how that might be exactly what Ed’s appeal is.

“Edward…I’m not sure how to put this tactfully, but…did you come here to brag about your sex life? I’m unaccustomed to this insecure side of yours.” He doesn’t even _know_ how to justify the oatmeal comment…. “You know I enjoy your unorthodox, off-beat approach to the code of society’s unspoken undercurrents,” he rocks his hands back and forth, interested by the fact that he actually feels uncomfortable having to tell Ed this, as if Ed is too young to know better and needs to be told how to behave, “but I don’t think you need me to explain that there’s… _really_ no situation in which I need to hear the details of your private life or time spent doing private things with your lover.”

Holding out a hand to still Ed from speaking again, he adds, “It’s not offensive, but it _is_ unnecessary, and frankly…awkward.” Pursing his lips, the perfect statement flashes across Fox’s mind— “Since both of us are seeing other people, I don’t…want to think about how you are in those situations anymore.”

 _Anymore?_ Ed licks his lips and mouths the word so many times, it begins to sound distorted. _He’s…joking, right? Trying to make light of his discomfort?_ Ed briefly considers asking Fox to repeat himself, to be clear and concise, to word his sentence in a way that doesn’t allude to past reciprocated feelings, because it’s currently too much for Ed’s mind to comprehend. _Fox thought about me like that? When? Why didn’t he—he lost his chance._

“I didn’t intend to brag,” Ed begins, frown dipping so low he can see his brows, “and it wasn’t said out of _insecurity_ , Fox, but rather as a way to illustrate how _complete_ —” Ed makes a circular motion with both hands “—my life is now, a way to address all the factors and fractions which jewel my crown…so to say.”

“Oswald…he’s more than a glorified bed partner—” _although we rarely stay off the mattress for long,_ Ed keeps that comment to himself, “—he eclipses my world, and shines light in new, scintillating directions, refracting like light through a diamond. He wants a future with me, one _some people_ find it pertinent to argue against.” Unbuttoning his suit jacket, Ed molds himself into the chair, and crosses his legs, to strum his fingertips on his kneecap. _I’m not insecure, am I? No, I’m here to clarify things._ Tapping out some outdated jingle from an old forgotten television ad, he sighs. One problem solved, two new form. _Is the first issue even squared away?_

“Fox,” he says hesitantly, locking eyes with the delicate ceiling cornice, seeking distraction in the victorian features of the manor, “what you said before, were you being honest, or were you making a mockery of me? I cannot tell.”

Fox quirks a brow. It doesn’t seem possible for Ed to talk about Oswald without making it reference sex—even when he tries, it fails. Another unexpected variable, but not that shocking—Ed and Oswald are only human, after all.

“Was I mocking your insecurity—or what I perceived as your insecurity? No, Edward. I _said_ my intent was not to mock, though it was…I’m repeating myself, but it was _awkward_ for you to…come here and tell me this? Just because I don’t understand your motives doesn’t mean I was insulting you…”

“No, Fox, I wasn’t alluding to the insults and insecurity thing—I know you aren’t the type of man who seeks to deliberately hurt someone you call a friend—but the comment you made, the…’ _anymore’_ one.” Ed continues to tap his knee, slipping away from the jingle and towards a pattern that signifies his growing distress. He shouldn’t be asking this, but he needs an answer in order to put it to rest, otherwise it will forever be attached to him.

“I know I wasn’t exactly subtle back then, but after so long, why must you bring that up now?” It’s too out of the blue for Ed’s liking. Slipping his eyes closed, he shifts in his chair, and swallows thickly.

“I—” Fox’s eyes flit across Ed’s face, taking in the mix of emotions on display, and the vulnerability beneath. “I clearly misspoke. You surely know what I meant,” Fox elaborates, wetting his lower lip quickly. “I don’t remember exactly what I said, I didn’t mean to allude—well…” he smooths his hands across the desktop, and sighs. “Now _I’ve_ gone and made things awkward. I apologize, Ed. It was a long time ago, and…”

Well, it’s not untrue, and it would be interesting to see Ed’s reaction to finding out. 

He _did_ think about it, back then. Even more before he and Alfred established their relationship, only as a discardable thought afterwards. “You’re a good-looking man, Ed, and you’re my intellectual equal to boot. And a dear friend. When you confessed to me, I—” He clicks his tongue. “It wasn’t fated to be. Obviously so—it would have only robbed you of your current happiness.”

Ed lolls his head to the side, and slowly blinks his eyes open, grin stretching the corners of his mouth. “Way to stroke a man’s ego, Foxy,” he teases, and the churning waves of disquietude inside him calm. “Thank you.” Uncovering answers, for Ed, is an enlightening experience—a weight lifted off his shoulders, craned away, deposited somewhere he cannot locate, and will never seek out. He feels lighter, unburdened, unencumbered by thoughts which once bore down on him.

“It pleases me—no, _comforts_ _me_ , to know that I wasn’t alone in my feelings…and while we might have made an impressive couple, I am all too fond of what I have now to wish my life was any different.” Ed uncrosses his legs, and sits up straight, recorrecting his posture before his muscles begin to protest. With a flick of his hand, he swipes his fingers through the front of his hair. “ _Correction_ , I do have one last wish…”

Fox quirks his head to the side, brows pinching together, in a way Ed cannot make sense of. Brushing his confusion to the side, he continues, “I wish that, like you, Kristen could see that the life I now lead is the cornerstone for a prosperous, fulfilled life, one not possible without Oswald’s presence in it. There is a barrier between myself and her, and I am searching for ways to breach it, to reconnect, resolve, and reassure her, but the door through is unlocatable. I fear she is growing to detest me, _and_ Oswald, and that is the last thing I want.”

“Detest you? Surely not, Ed. I can’t fathom it.” Fox scrutinizes Ed’s expression, mulls over his words. “ _Kristen_ has problems with you dating Oswald? Why? I thought she’d been on an outing with you both. Did Oswald do something to offend her somehow? Or—” He blinks, considering different situations that could have come to pass. “Did _you_ anger her, with the sudden change in your lifestyle?”

Ed hangs his head slightly, eyes drifting to a spot on the floor. Before he starts speaking again, Fox jumps back in and says, “You know that the only real connection Miss Red and I share is that we are both your closest, oldest friends. I’m not sure that I can help you solve your problems with her. It might be time for you two to go your separate ways, since the life you shared as her crime partner is nothing like the life you now share with your current partner—as lovers.” He’s trying to be patient with Ed, unsure why he needed to come speak to him about _this_ aspect, either, but it has a reasoning nonetheless. Nothing Ed does is without reasoning—something he and Fox _absolutely_ share in common.

“I’m not accustomed to feelings of… _failure_ ,” Ed shares, pursing his lips. The way Kristen perceives this situation is so independent from the way he does—strife compared to serendipity, decimation to devotion. It’s not odd that he finds himself on the opposite side of the spectrum, he’s often regards things in a way most people cannot comprehend, but he’s never truly had this problem with her. For once their views don’t mesh. They may have lived years on the same page, but now they are browsing dramatically different novels, living unconnected lives.

Looking up and away, Ed wraps his arms around his midsection. “How can something so _wondrous_ and sensational be so troublesome for another?” He continues, flicking his eyes across the room. “I ask myself this everyday, Fox. Ask why, why, _why_? She believes something is wrong with me, that I need _fixing_. It’s not the fact that I’m in love with a man that has her in such a pickle—Kristen doesn’t hold prejudices like that—but, well…I’m not quite clear on everything that niggles in the back of her mind. Certainly the Riddler comes into play…I think she may like _him_ more than _me_.”

Something in Ed’s chest sinks to his stomach, leaving behind an empty feeling. _That’s it, isn’t it? She likes the Riddler more? Do I mean so little? Am I not worthy?_ The inside of Ed’s head buzzes like a beehive—cacophonic—as though a new layer of thoughts have been uncovered, but there’s no sweet, sugary honey to be found, only something bitter, like granules of poorly grinded coffee beans. Thumb to mouth, Ed scrapes his teeth across his nail, drowning out the sound in his head.

Fox is too quiet, comments withheld as though he’s unsure how to address the situation, or unwilling to do, so Ed seeks distraction. Chess is out of the picture, he can’t strategize when so thoroughly preoccupied. It’s—

Something catches Ed’s eye, and it has him jumping to his feet, frown marring his face. “Did you move those?” He asks, pointing to the knick-knacks he reorganised the day before.

“Move what?” Fox asks, head tilted to the side, travelling along Ed’s outstretched arm. “Oh, no. I haven’t touched them. Is there something wrong?”

Ed opens his mouth to speak, but his voice has been stolen, muted. _I’m certain I righted them. They were in perfect alignment_ …. Hand hovering beside his cheek, fingers twitching, Ed steps forward and crouches down, scrutinising the little ornaments. _I did it, right? That wasn’t a fabrication?_ Yesterday wasn’t the most pleasant of days, what with his other self—Ed cancels that particular thought, and sets to recorrecting the positioning of the knick-knacks, knowing he will not be able to settle until he does.

Fox begins to speak, but decides to wait until Ed has the items before him in an order that seems to settle him. Little details such as these always preoccupy Ed; he never focuses on the larger picture if he can waste his time consumed with concern over perceived changes.

In truth, Fox doesn’t remember which way the semi-precious stone carved figurines were arranged before—they’re a collection of safari animals that Fox assumes belonged to Thomas, before Bruce clearly reappropriated them as toys, because they’re chipped and scuffed from what had to have been play. The stones are interesting to look at, multitudes of variance in the patterns coursing throughout each one, no two carved from the same rock, and Fox doesn’t mind having them adorn the office. He’s never gotten rid of any of Thomas’ possessions since he moved in. Fox forgot about these particular ones, holding no real value to him (despite enjoying their presence), until Ed became fixated on them last visit.

That’s what inspired Fox to rearrange them just so, to see if Ed might notice next time he stopped by, which Fox assumed would be soon—not as soon as _this_ , but certainly within the week. Having a life with Oswald Cobblepot at the center was never going to hold; add in the natural chaos and volatility of Edward Nygma, and a disaster started the minute those stars crossed.

“Ed…these thoughts are eating at you, and they’re surely not as severe as you might think them to be. I’m sure Kristen only missed _the Riddler_ because of the skill and success you two had as a team. Find a way to communicate with her, and all will surely sort itself, but until then, you’ll drive yourself mad with your worries. Take your mind off things—play a game of chess, perhaps.”

“I can’t,” Ed says, mouth a straight line, bent at the waist so his eyes are level with the table, meticulously rearranging the figurines. “I’m too —I don’t—”

“Then go home and _rest_ ,” Fox advises, stopping the movement of one animal by placing his flatten fingers across the top of it. This makes Ed quirk his brows and meet Fox’s eyes. “Everything can be resolved with Miss Kristen another time, and, well, not to throw you out, but I _do_ have things to attend to.”

“Oh,” Ed sits back, looking downcast. “Yes. Of course.” He wrings his hands fast, flaying more than gesturing, before clasping them firmly in his lap. “Of course, Foxy,” he repeats, frowning, still staring at the last knick-knack, looking glum about what he perceives to be its unalignment from the norm.

After he’s sent Ed on his way, Fox returns to the desk, and runs his finger around the figurines, tracing a pattern where there is none. Scooping them all up in his fist, he tosses them in his desk. 

It wasn’t right, the lie he told Ed—that he considered them equals. In retrospect, he did regret lying about that. 

~~~

Barely hiding the tablet in time, the one that displays all of the security camera feeds, Fox shoves it back in the hidden recess under his desk blotter before Kristen storms in, slamming the double wooden doors to his office open so violently, they ricochet off the walls and crash together, close again, without a touch.

She reminds him of a comet: burning bright, streaking across his office in a blaze of red hair and angry stomping clacks of her boots, moving fast and flaring out.

“Miss Kristen, to what do I owe—”

“Don’t even start! Just shut up!” She glowers down at him, then across, as she spreads her hands on the desk and leans forward. Glaring at him for a moment, as fast as a light switch flick, she slams her palms down and bellows, “And it’s _Red_ , my name is Red, you know that!”

He bites his lip and raises his eyebrows. “My apologies, Miss _Red_. Insult was not the intent of my informality.” He leans forward enough to meet her eyes—she’s wearing glasses today and they’ve slid down her nose, the silver, metal bridge obscuring her pupils until he moves his own head. “Why are you so angry? What’s the matter?”

“Ugh! Why are you _like this_? Always—”

“ _Always_?” he questions, tone light, truly inquisitive.

Kristen’s nostrils flare and she grips the wooden edge under her fingers tightly. “What did you do to him?” she asks; Fox lifts his brows again and shakes his head. He has no idea what she’s referring to. “What did you do to him!” she demands, shaking the desk in frustration. Fox hasn’t spent much time with Kristen, but he doesn’t need to in order to understand her. A nice woman, but so prone to outbursts. It’s clear she’s lived her whole life repressing things, until they boil over, and her attitude suffers for it.

“Red, whatever you need me to assist you with, you need to be straightforward about. Neither you nor I speak in riddles.”

Kristen grits her teeth and hisses, shaking her head. “You think that’s funny, after everything you’ve done?”

“Okay, wow,” Fox throws his hands up and scoots back in his chair. “A joke in poor taste, I suppose. I’m…assuming we’re not going to be lovingly teasing our mutual friend today?”

“How can you talk about him like that after everything you’ve done!” Kristen shakes with anger, her leather jacket crunching up as she crosses her arms and balls her fists in the crooks of her elbows.

Crossing his arms, Fox ponders. “Did they break up?”

Kristen wrinkles her nose. “No—what? No! What are you talking about?”

“Ed came to speak to me about the man he’s romantically involved with. Twice now, in fact. _Primarily to brag about how…carnal their connection is._ “And I gave him some…words of advice. And _warning_. You know of his relationship, correct?”

“Oh my god, _yes_ , of course I know about Ed’s boyfriend, you know I know him personally, stop with the mind games and face up about what you’ve done like a _man_ and not some kind of wannabe relationship therapist! You know everything that goes on in this town—start acting like it!”

Rising, Fox rebuttons his jacket and swallows down the first few responses that flit through his mind. “Since you’re obviously not going to sit, I’m going to stand, because frankly, you’re making me uncomfortable. You know…the standing _and_ the paranoia. I can’t do anything about the latter, though, can I?”

Stepping over to the bar cart in the corner, Fox pours himself a tumbler full of water—room temperature, but still delicious (Alfred is kind to always set out some excellently-filtered bottled water for him). “I didn’t know about Edward’s new-found love. He came here to…well…I think he wanted to brag a little, to be honest.” Taking another sip, Fox speaks immediately after. “And well-deserved, too. It can’t be easy for him to have been alone so long, and there has to be _some_ residual level of embarrassment there in regards to _both_ of us—both you _and_ me—for the crushes he harbored in the past, no matter how…illogical both sets of feelings turned out to be for him.”

Kristen stalks over to Fox, arms still tightly wound around herself. It’s impressive, how unafraid she is, how she moves with the freedom of someone who feels unthreatened. Is that confidence something she’s taught herself, or does it stem from naïveté? The years haven’t taught the self-proclaimed _Lady Red_ all the lessons she needed to learn to survive in the world she chose to occupy. It’s a shame, really, how often moments like this remind Fox how relatively young she is. Edward too, but with Kristen, there’s something more tragic about it. Ed sets himself up for failure intentionally, _irrationally_ , but intentionally. 

Kristen just walks into it blind. 

“This isn’t about the boyfriend. Forget all of that, I don’t care, that doesn’t matter,” Kristen’s voice starts to crack; her breath shakes. She grips her leather coat so hard the material squeaks under her fists. “This is about what you did to Ed, what you’re _still_ doing to him—Oswald’s a distraction! That’s not your goal, you don’t care about them, or about Oswald at all! This is about you messing with poor Ed, like you always have! You’re the one who did it, aren’t you? Yes, Ed’s weird and sometimes creepy but he’s not a bad person! He’s my friend— _my family_ , and you messed with him, so you messed with us both! Why did you make him do it? Why break him, he’s already broken!”

“Krist— _Red_ , I still have no idea what you’re referring to. If he ended things with Oswald and is brokenhearted, I’m truly sorry, but it was for the best, I only had Ed’s best interests in mind—”

She grabs Fox by the biceps and _shakes him_ , shouting, “ _Stop!_ ” Fox doesn’t drop his tumbler, but much of the water inside arches out and splashes on the floor.

A dead silence falls over both of them.

“This isn’t about Oswald! Even _he_ thinks it’s about Oswald; he doesn’t know that’s the least important part of the story, that Oswald isn’t what he should be focused on! I’m the only one who’s given a damn about anything important that’s happened to him, and now I’ve figured it out,” she growls, shaking in frustration. “I only wish I’d figured it out _sooner_ but even Ed’s prattling keeps me distracted from his deeper issues. And then he called me this morning to complain about _you_ , and my gut said, the first _minute_ I had enough silence to think clearly, that _you_ were the answer I was seeking, because you’re the only bastard who can get inside his head worse than he gets inside his own!”

Kristen shoves Fox back a few steps; he doesn’t fight her. No need for this to turn truly violent—it’s best to let her get her rage out. Still, he doesn’t hesitate pushing the button that’s disguised into the gold bracelet he wears on his wrist, after he rolls out of her hold and pretends to shake himself off. Alfred will have already been watching the cameras, and now he’ll know that he truly needs to be on backup, and more importantly, to _not_ allow Bruce to witness anything further.

“Why are you behaving like this, Kristen? I don’t want us to fight, we’re friends! Ed wouldn’t want this.” He frowns and steps further back from her, but she advances, almost pinning him in the corner.

She sneers and crowds closer. “Yeah, since when have you been concerned with what _Ed wants_? You think he wanted to question his sanity again, to question his soul, his _life_? You’re disguising it, and trying to hide it, and maybe I figured it out later than Ed needed but it’s still not too late!”

“Kristen, he’s his own man, he can make his own choices. Your chance to be by his side all your life is long gone, and all of us know that you didn’t _want_ that, so why lash out about it now?”

Fox knows she’ll withdraw a weapon from her coat the minute she plunges a hand into her jacket, but knowing her personal history, he doesn’t expect the gleaming metal quaking in the light, or the force with which she shoves the barrel into his chest.

“I expected you to carry a knife,” Fox notes dully. “Not a gun, of course. Thought you didn’t like them.” Neither does Bruce. Thank goodness he’s not still watching.

“Fuck you!” she shrieks, hair flying in her face. “Tell me _what_ you _did_ to make Ed massacre all those people on 8th Street.” She sniffs loudly and pulls her own lips into her mouth. “Tell me what you did to break him so badly, to make him question his whole life like this, that he would resort to trying to get some washed-up mobster to save him from himself!”

“Right then, love, time for you to go,” Alfred says, stepping out from behind the false panel that lines the back of Fox’s office. He’d been there for the whole explosion, Fox is sure—quiet, present, and carefully timing his entrance. Before Kristen can even react, he lashes his arms around her waist and picks her up off the ground, kicking and screaming, like she’s Bruce’s age again, except her hysterics are more tortured than a child’s pointless tantrum.

It’s sad, really, to see how simply she made herself fall apart. _They really are quite alike_ , Fox muses, as Kristen is dragged away, gun long ago dropped. She twists in Alfred’s arms, pounds her fists into his chest and tries to kick his kneecaps out, but none of the blows faze him, and he tosses her out the door, before grabbing her once more, hoisting her up over his shoulder this time, her glasses hanging off her face, both of them shouting as he hauls her down the hallway.

Shuddering, Fox cleans up the dropped tumbler (landed on the carpet, unharmed) and Kristen’s gun (nothing special about it, she probably stole it a long time ago, and he’d be surprised if it works), before sitting back down at his desk. Histrionics are always exhausting to watch; he’s far from prone to them himself, but he can’t help the part of him that empathizes with displays of such deep emotion. It’s not how he manages the feelings he holds, nor how he chooses to interact with the world, but there’s something so…pitiful, beholding how merciless those who _do_ explode, and fall apart, are to their impulses.

“Watching people crack is sad, Bruce,” Fox says aloud sometime later, after he’s retrieved the tablet and watched Kristen be thrown off the property. “You’re not supposed to come in when things get out of hand, you know that,” he explains, not truly chastising but still reprimanding, turning to face the young man who thinks he’s so carefully snuck up on him.

“I’m going to have to learn how to deal with situations like that eventually,” Bruce counters, looking serious as ever, too old for his age.

“True. But I’m here to help you with that, in more controlled environments. I’ll talk with you later about any questions you might have about Lady Red’s… _explosion_ , but I need privacy now, is that okay?”

Bruce nods, and retreats, looking back over his shoulder at least twice, as if he hopes Fox will change his mind. 

“Stop dawdling, you little sleuther, and do as you’re told,” Alfred chides, reentering the office. Clasping a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, he gently eases him out of the room, and towards the main corridor. “You’ll get your turn to deal with this disaster of city sooner or later, Master Bruce, but for now, how ‘bout you go wash up for supper? We’ll be there shortly.” 

Bruce nods, swallowing down the tension in his jaw, then slinks away.

When Alfred is certain he is alone, he makes his way back to Fox in time to see him pick up his phone and turn it over in hand. Shutting the door behind him, he asks, “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” This is getting far too dangerous for Alfred’s liking; both Miss Kringle and Mr. Nygma are off their rockers, and are not the type of people he cares to have around his family.

Raising his brows, Fox pauses, and shakes his head. “No. I have little clue where this is leading, I didn’t when I _began_ this experiment, but I _am_ interested in the results.” Without another word, Fox opens his phone, and holds it to his ear; the expression on his face almost has Alfred smiling.

“Edward, I think it best you return to the manor. Miss Kringle just made an attempt on my life.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few of you caught onto Fox, and the fact that he might be more nefarious than he first appeared. Well done! He’s the King of Gotham for a reason.
> 
> Who enjoyed their first glimpse into the Fox crime family?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
